


Animals

by its_alive



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Angst, F/F, Friendship/Love, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_alive/pseuds/its_alive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can always leave Rosewood, but will Rosewood ever let you go? Future fic that alternates between the future and season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Can Always Leave Rosewood

**Author's Note:**

> The past is never dead. It's not even past. (William Faulkner)

It's late September and the night feels already chilly in New York.

"I think we should get a cab?"

Pointing at the street with a slight uplifting of her characteristic dimpled chin, Spencer asks the question in hesitation, wrapping up in the light trench.

Mark traps her hand and pushes it into the pocket of his leather jacket, forcing her to walk.

He sure is a fan of late night walking.

"Don't you wanna walk home?", he smirks, his black eyes twinkling. "Let's walk barefoot in the park."

"You're not seriously saying we should walk barefoot to Central Park now, are you?"

She's not really in the mood – or in the right temperature – to face a long dark walk.

Mark and his walking obsession.

But he's teasing her.

"It's a play."

Spencer magnificently arches her brow at him. She  _knows_  it's a play. And it's also an old movie with a very young Robert Redford and a very young Jane Fonda playing a very young couple of newlyweds in New York and facing typical newlywed trouble, or what Spencer assumes it was typical newlywed trouble a century ago. Things have changed for newlyweds, though. Redford played an ambitious lawyer and Fonda played a vivacious "girl", whereas Mark and Spencer are both lawyers and both vivacious… well, Mark is more vivacious than her, to tell the truth. Whatever the case,  _Barefoot in the park_ is the kind of movie you can watch in TCM on a Friday night when you get home after dinner and a couple of Mojitos at a jazz club. It's the kind of movie she'll probably end up watching tonight after they have sex.

"I  _know_  it's a play, and it's a play by Neil Simon", she playfully lectures him, thinking about how much she's wanted to go to the theater lately, but thinking also of how strangely similar Robert Redford and Mark Melfort are, even in their last names, no matter how much of a golden boy Redford used to be before getting awfully ancient and dying, in opposition to Mark's curly dark fresh-from-the-start French-poet appearance. "But I'm freezing here."

"And the apartment's just around the block."

One thing Mark is, is insistent.  _Almost_  as insistent as she is, really. That's probably why she chose him, in the first place.

She values insistence.

"Three blocks."

"You're gonna get warm if you walk there."

"I can get warmer in a cab", she fires back softly, looking up to his warm mouth. "So no way I'm walking three blocks at this time at night."

"You can get warm if you let me hold you too."

Well, that is something. He is sort of a big nice heater in winter, but she guesses winter can start already in September for them, whereas summer is a big don't-get-too-close battle.

She wraps her arms around his waist, sort of giving in to the idea of a warm-up.

"You're already holding me and I'm still freezing", she says, trying to win the argument she's anyway going to win. "I want a cab."

He embraces her too, pressing his chin against the top of her head.

"Why didn't you move to Florida after college again?", he asks after planting a kiss on her head. "I heard there's sun and beaches over there."

"I'm not a fan of the sun and the beach."

"You like terribly dangerous and overpopulated cities."

"Huge cities with lots of crimes."

"Huge cities with huge parks where lots of crimes happen every night."

"Which is exactly why I don't feel like walking", Spencer concludes, "because I'm the one prosecuting the crime, not the one suffering it."

He laughs and they kiss and then Spencer pushes him to start walking away from the sidewalk and closer to the street. They're never going to get a cab like this. It's Friday night and lots of people are yelling for cabs. First they have to gain some distance from those obnoxious couples who have left the jazz-and-cocktail club during the course of their playful banter and who look like they are waiting for the head start to run and win the race against them. Although, Spencer knows, she can win any race, especially with Mark there. She is fast and he is fast and strong. They are both intelligent and he's got these amazing runner legs and these dark curls and this really deep voice which, at the same time, does not sound neither threatening nor pretentious. He is perfect. Not perfect in the sense of having a perfect background and a perfect profession and a perfect personality, but perfect in his appearance and in his hunger for the world and in his obsession to walk across the city. He is perfect for her, because she is perfect in her appearance after years of evolution towards her true style, she is perfect in her hunger for the world and she is perfect in her obsession for catching a cab instead of walking barefoot.

They walk together in a semi-warm embrace, avoiding other New Yorkers who also avoid to bump into the couple, when Spencer spots a big yellow cab stopping right in front of them.

"That one."

She sprints in her heels, knowing this is it and she has to beat the competitors, and her fingers rush to grab the knob of the rear seat in the most primordial declaration of possession humanity has ever gotten to see and understand: I was here first, so this is mine.

First, mine.

I.

There's not much difference between the big city and the original jungle.

From out of the car a face emerges, slightly freckled and with an annoyed expression.

Not everyone cares for competition, even in New York. Although it's weird to escape competition in New York, one must reckon. That's why Spencer chose the city.

The girl glares at her.

Whatever.

Spencer subtly glares back.

She's not probably from New York anyway. She has a freckled pale skin with clear evidence of sunburn. The girl had better watch out the sun and the beach wherever she lives.

There's another girl inside, who's taking her time to get out while paying the driver, and Spencer gets impatient with her, noticing the long dark cascade of hair as the girl faces away to attend the driver, the long tanned legs Spencer can see through the window, legs that are not covered by stockings to fight the night chill of September.

These are not New Yorkers.

New Yorkers know how precious time is.

These are probably party girls trying to have crazy fun during their wild weekend in the big city, wannabe models trying to get an important number or a direct line to the top, people who will leave for some other easy place on a Monday.

New York, New York.

She's been watching too many oldies lately.

"Baby", the freckles call from the awkward position in the street next to Spencer. "Come  _on_ , I am freezing here and we're gonna be  _so_  late."

Spencer has to agree on this one.

The legs finally appear, giving way to a perfectly fit black dress, the body of which carelessly directs her gaze to the impatient freckles across from her.

And the woman… she doesn't even notice Spencer.

But Spencer notices the woman, notices she knows this woman's legs and this woman's eyes even before really seeing them, and she knows this woman's cascade of glossy black long perfect hair.

She knows all so well because it belongs to her best friend and she can't believe it.

In New York.

Of all the cities in the world…

And where was she the last time they talked?

"Hi."

Hi.

That's all she can utter, because the name doesn't come out of her throat but still the long black hair dances in the woman's shoulders as she turns to look back at the person who just talked to her, and the first curious glance becomes wide-eyed and alarmed and somewhat happy in recognition, and Spencer also realizes she knows  _that_  expression of real curiosity followed by a warm astonishment that the girl is getting in her forehead and in her vivid eyes and around the corners of her mouth, because it's the same expression she's seen hundred of times, the same face, slightly thinner, less rounded, so to speak, but it's the face of Emily Fields and Spencer Hastings-Melfort knows it like she knows the palm of her hand.

"Spencer!"

"Emily."

Spencer takes a step forward and proceeds to awkwardly embrace her old friend, who embraces her back with her usual warmth.

"Spencer", Emily repeats, "wow, I can't believe this."

Spencer can't either.

"Hey", Spencer greets again, patting Emily's shoulder as the sweet smell of the long hair fills her nose with a strange sensation, because Emily has changed her perfume but she still smells so nice. "What're you doing here?"

"It's a long story", Emily whispers when their eyes properly meet, and she looks genuinely happy to see her. "Are you coming inside?"

"The cab?"

"No, the club."

"The club?"

Spencer turns to follow Emily's glance, catching a glimpse of an evidently surprised Mark and of more annoyed freckles before registering the information of the Daybreak club Emily must be referring to. It's a trendy place.

Are they party girls?

But last time she checked, Emily was an MBA.

Are they going together in there?

"I'm such an idiot", Emily's already replying, "obviously you're trying to get our cab."

"Yeah", Spencer turns to look back, "yeah, but…"

But she's already given up the car in the embrace and she's pretty sure someone else is going to steal it.

"What're you doing here?", she repeats. "Do you live here now?"

"No, no", Emily answers quickly, "I'm still living in LA."

Oh, that was where she was when they last talked.

LA.

"It's been so long, how long it's been?"

"It's…", Emily seems lost in thought for a second, "too long, I know, you should totally kill me."

"Especially if you're coming to New York without telling me."

Emily smiles. "It does sound really bad."

"It sounds worse."

"It's not what it seems."

"Well, you should know you're not going anywhere with me with that kind of excuse."

Anyone would think Emily should know better, and Emily seems to think so too because Spencer can catch a blush on her cheeks, followed by the immediate brief look-away that still characterizes Emily's shyness. She hasn't changed that much. She's still the same.

"You're totally right."

A cough is meant to interrupt them, but they don't know who it is.

"Baby."

The freckles.

Spencer takes another moment to check out the girl who she guesses is Emily's girlfriend and to check on Mark's continuous existence by her side.

Mark is now grabbing the cab door.

Good.

The girl's pretty. Kind of like a doll, but not vulgar like a doll. She should definitely watch out the sunburn, though, with that kind of skin.

"Hi, I'm Spencer", Spencer finally decides to introduce herself, holding out her hand for a handshake, "I'm Emily's old high school friend."

The girl returns a freckled tiny hand.

"India."

Really?

Spencer can't quite match the name with the freckles and the doll appearance.

"Nice to meet you, India", Spencer acknowledges, turning to look at Emily again before remembering Mark's presence. "And this is Mark."

"Hey."

"Hi, Mark", Emily greets, smiling politely, "I'm Emily."

"Let me guess, Spencer's old high school friend", Mark smirks, softly shaking Emily's hand. "You girls don't look that old, though."

"It's high school that's old", Emily flashes a wider smile, "not us."

"And friendship", Spencer adds, making sure to remind Emily of the most recent lack of contact between them. "That's supposed to be really old too."

"That's older", Emily agrees, shooting her a seemingly understanding glance. "Really old."

"Ancient."

"Older than high school?", Mark asks with curiosity. "Going back to middle school or further?"

"Almost."

"Going back to the pre-historical times of the world", Spencer announces, deadpanning. "Back when humanity didn't write in any known alphabet and all that, it's kind of a mitochondrial friendship."

Emily and India shoot her a confused glance, but she can't help sounding weird and too wordy when she gets a little nervous, and she's a little nervous right now.

Mark looks pleased, though. "Really?"

"It's not that old", Emily says, laughing. "She's lying."

"Yeah, I kind of notice she does that a lot."

"Are you kidding me?"

"Let's say you tend to get slightly hyperbolic sometimes", Mark says in response to Spencer's offended tone. "So where are you guys going?"

"The club", Emily repeats, smiling more shyly now. "Wanna come with us?"

"We just got out of one."

"A jazz one", Spencer clarifies. "We're going home."

"You should come home with us", Mark points out excitedly, "so you guys could catch up."

"Em", India cuts in, clearly alarmed by the direction of the conversation, "we're gonna be late."

"We're meeting some friends", Emily offers sheepishly before staring back at Spencer. "But, yeah, we should definitely catch up."

And it's a you-and-I sort of stare, but it's also apologetic.

"Do you still have my number?"

"Did you ever change it?"

"Well, yeah, like four years ago."

"Then I still have it", Emily assures quickly. "No problem."

"You sure?"

"It hasn't been  _that_  long, Spencer."

"How are you?"

They are locking eyes now and Spencer feels like they shouldn't let go just yet. She feels clingy. And she doesn't totally like it.

"I'm  _good_ ", Emily answers in all her typical politeness, and Spencer can't read the truth out of her, not anymore. "Everything's good, how are  _you_?"

"I'm good too", Spencer engages in competing politeness, although she is sort of good, after all, but she wants to know more. "But we  _really_  should catch up, we could have lunch tomorrow." She steals another brief glance to the annoyed freckles across from her. Is this her girlfriend now? Because she seems kind of downbeat, to say the least, and not at all like the type of girl Emily would like in the old times. The old times. Maybe that's why. This is not the old times anymore, and she doesn't really know what's going on in Emily's life, and she hasn't known anything about Emily in a long time. "India, you're invited to come too."

India nods, but it's Emily who talks again, her eyes not leaving from Spencer.

"You cook for so many people now?"

Spencer can hear Mark's deep laugh. "Yeah, you cook for so many people now, Spencer?"

"I know how to  _order_  lunch", Spencer defends, "and I've  _always_  been able to cook for four people."

"I can't do lunch tomorrow though." Emily looks both a little sad and a little stressed. "How does Sunday work for you?"

She has to work on a case she's assisting. But she's also sure she can make time for this.

"Coffee?"

A flash of recognition lights up Emily's face, punctuated by a sly smile.

"Old habits die hard."

"Do I have your number?"

"You should."

"Did you ever change it?"

Emily's gaze seems still for a second, wandering on Spencer's face.

"It hasn't been  _that_  long", Emily finally re-announces, but she seems hesitant that, maybe, she's lying. "I could swear."

Spencer knows it has been  _long_. "We have to do the math."

"You'll probably love that."

"You know her too well", Mark cuts in. "She's gonna make you pay for every mathematical error you're committing."

"I'm used to it", Emily bites back, although Spencer doubts it's possible for her to continue being used to anything about her. "I'll buy you coffee to make up for every one, okay?"

Spencer shrugs and smiles back. "You do remember how to please me."

Emily doesn't laugh, but seems amused. "No one can easily forget that", she says, and Spencer catches a teasing tone that surprises her. "So I'll call you tomorrow."

"I'll be waiting for it."

"But you should expect it late."

"Right", Spencer says, "cause you're going to a party."

Even though Spencer doesn't really want to say goodbye yet, no matter how much annoyance the freckles are suffering, Mark takes the initiative and advances a step to slightly hug Emily. Spencer hates it when he does that kind of easy touchy feely thing, but Emily seems fine with it, not the slightest put off by it.

"I'll be delighted to hear some high-school anecdotes about Spencer, Emily", he advises. "Just so you know for the next time."

Emily winks. "I have lots of them, but you know they mostly involve books and homework."

"And why am I not surprised?"

Well, he should be surprised, and the unnoticed glance Spencer exchanges with Emily is enough proof of it.

"This is not about me, Mark", Spencer cuts off, shooting a devilish grin to Emily, "this is about us, meaning… I don't even know what you're doing in NYC so I expect a full catch-up."

Including the Indian girlfriend.

"Me too."

"You know what you have to do then."

Call.

Call me.

She knows Emily's getting the message, but it's clearer when Emily nods slightly, staring right into her eyes.

"I know."

They embrace each other again, and she wants to ask her if she's really going to call, but she knows she's not supposed to do that. She's already made her point across. It's nonsense putting pressure into people; at least into friends, close friends, people who'll always be close even when they're not anymore. Besides, Emily's never responded well under pressure.

She learned that some time ago.

So she says nothing else.

But she gets her hopes up when Emily holds her tightly and whispers it's great to see her and they'll see each other on Sunday.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

But she surprises herself mentally crossing her fingers for it.

They're in the cab now and it all feels like a dream, one of these things that you tell others at dinner tables. I ran into an old friend  _in the street_. She was getting out of a cab, I was running to get it. It happened like in a movie, in slow motion, but without the slow motion and without the additional music. I knew it was her even before I knew it. So did you ever get the cab? I actually  _did_ , isn't it amazing? So did she ever call? She never called. She never calls back lately, lately meaning in the last three or four years. Is she going to call? Does she mean it? Spencer tries to remember the last time they talked on the phone. It was about three years ago, when Hanna's baby was going to be born and they discussed the presents for the baby. And the last time they saw each other was right after that, it was…

Mark squeezes her hand in the seat.

"Wow."

She turns to look at him questioningly. "Wow what?"

"Wow, your friend is the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen in my whole life."

She narrows her eyes at him on purpose. " _Thank you_."

"Excluding the person in front of me right now, of course."

"Of course."

The comment doesn't really bother her because she does know of Emily's absolutely superior beauty, which actually has gotten even more superior in the last years, for the obvious look of it, but it still pisses her off a little and she can't exactly account for the reason.

"I'm serious."

"You don't need to be."

"I am."

"It's okay", she plays it off, "she's gay, so it's not like I have to compete with her."

He seems greatly amused by this revelation. "Are you serious?"

"Definitely."

"All right", he laughs jovially too, "because I was actually wondering where the  _baby_  thing was coming from, but I guess my brain was refusing to believe it."

"I wouldn't say it was your brain."

He's teasing her, but now his eyes cling to her.

"I resent sexist jokes like that one, you should know."

She leans her shoulder towards him and pouts.

"You poor liberal thing."

He shows his perfect white teeth. "So this is the gay friend I've heard about?"

"Indeed."

It's not like she's had to talk about Emily a lot. Only sometimes. Only when certain things are talked about. And Emily has made it easier by not appearing at all in her life, not even at her wedding, for which she guesses she should feel offended. But she decided to stop feeling offended with Emily a long time ago, if she actually ever had the capacity at all.

"Were you planning on hitting on her in front of me?"

"I already did", Mark says, "didn't you notice?"

"I did, actually."

He gives her a funny, honest smile. "So why didn't she come to our wedding if she's such a great friend of yours?"

"Her mom was sick at the time", Spencer replies flatly, "so it was a good excuse."

"But you think it was an excuse."

Well, it was. She is sure of it.

"No, as I said, her mom was sick and she couldn't make it."

"Is she all right?"

"Her mom?"

"Yeah."

"I think she's better now."

She has no idea about Pam Fields' health, but nobody's told her if she has died, so Spencer guesses she's better.

"So when did she become gay?"

Spencer cuts him with her eyes. "I'm guessing maybe when she was  _born_."

"You know what I mean."

She looks at the city lights in Broadway, imperturbable outside, edgy and windy inside.

"She was sixteen when she came out to us."

She remembers Emily's tears in front of Detective Wilden like it was yesterday.

"Was she this hot back then?"

"Mark", she finally snaps, causing him to burst out in laughter, "she was my best friend and I didn't really look at her with sexual eyes like you're thinking of her, but yes, she was."

"I'm not thinking of her with sexual eyes."

"No, you're thinking of her with a penis."

"I resent that  _again_ ", he shoots back, although he doesn't seem to resent it at all because, for him, the whole thing is actually very funny. "I'm just curious about her, that's all."

"You already got to know her."

"Is that as much as I'm ever gonna see of her?"

For some reason, the question stings. "Probably."

"Did she ever have a crush on you?"

He's  _so_  obviously teasing her now, it's causing a strange mix of irritation and amusement in her. Emily obviously made an impact.

"I don't think so."

"But you're not sure."

"No, I  _am_  sure."

"She probably did, it's  _you_  after all."

She rolls her eyes, hiding her annoyance under sarcasm. "I can't agree more."

"I would've had a crush on you", he offers wickedly, "but then again, I'm biased."

"You're married, which makes it more boring."

"Did you just call me boring?"

"I did, didn't I?"

He knows he's not boring, though, so he just stares at her in confidence.

"And did you have a crush on her?"

He's curious, he's talkative, he's still a boy at heart.

Men.

"Absolutely, how can you tell?"

He lifts his index finger to her face. "It's these lines here", he motions, whispering around her creasing forehead and her pouty lips, "and it's also this pout here, I recognize it, it means lesbian crush."

"Idiot", she playfully chides, brushing away his finger, "are you gonna keep talking about her?"

"All week."

"Well, go on, I won't interrupt you."

"You think she'll call?"

"No."

She feels suddenly sad at her certainty.

"Why?", he enquires. "She looked really glad to see you."

"Statistics", she explains. "She hasn't called me in years."

He seems to take this more seriously. "I'd call you."

She smiles, and it's her who squeezes his hand. "That's because you're sweet."

"And boring."

"And my husband."

"So did you guys fight or anything?"

Is he never going to let it go?

"Not really."

"So what happened?"

She turns to look at him with sudden irritation. "Life happened."

But it wasn't only life and she bites it back, much like she bites back everything about Rosewood and her teenage years, and most of what has to do with Emily during that time.

It wasn't only life.

Problems, books and homework.

It was also everything else that happened to both of them, and she tries to get it off of her shoulders again, but she's trying to remember the last time she thought about Emily, and she's surprised to realize it was only about one month ago, when she was talking to Hanna on the phone. Hanna has that effect on her. And Spencer always asks about Emily, because Emily still has a good, semi-close friendship with Hanna. Because who wouldn't have it with Hanna, anyway?

But it wasn't only life, and she remembers the thought crossed her mind one month ago even though it's been so long since she stopped caring about Emily Fields.

The thought crossed her mind like it's crossing her mind again.

Life happened.

Other things happened.

That night happened too.

She looks away at the big city outburst outside the window, feeling a stingy oppresion in her chest.


	2. It Happened That Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an alternative version of 3x01.

It's the end of summer in Rosewood, where the night's still young and four cell phones beep in pure synchrony.

A-time.

"Show me your  _boobs_ ", Spencer reads the text aloud, drawling out the sound of the u with a characteristically excessive emission of air. Then her throat punctuates the signature. "A."

She raises both of her brows like a self-assured queen and then she smirks in condescendence. Freedom is sweet, and Spencer's finally enjoying it.

"Does Mona have a ten-year-old brother?"

Rolling her eyes from her place next to Spencer on the couch, Aria lets her body lean back languidly against the sea of cushions in a solid declaration of annoyance with all the faux As in their life. Freedom is sweet, but their constant popularity is definitely a burden.

"A for annoying."

Emily's voice is unusually raw tonight, and she waggles her curvy eyebrows at Aria and Spencer before drinking again from her flask. She's never been the kind to bring a flask to a sleepover, but things have changed since Maya died.

"Is it ever gonna stop?"

And that is Hanna. If Spencer and Aria choose to confront the chain of anonymous texts with the mask of disdain and boredom, Hanna is still living under the influence of the past nightmare, and she asks the question with a grimace of disgust, her fingers touching the back of her neck with the intention of giving more volume to her curls. After all, it's Mona who's been locked up in Radley Sanitarium. Mona, who was Hanna's friend. It's the weight of saying goodbye to someone who was yours and who you thought you knew. Mona was A. It's still amazing that no one saw it coming. Mona was A. Spencer and Aria didn't have to say goodbye to anyone but Hanna did.  _Emily did_. The thought slaps Spencer in the face, and she glances over at her friend. She seems already intoxicated, her eyelids heavy and her words slurred in a hoarse whisper. But it's her eyes that call for Spencer's attention. They're looking away all the time, afraid to establish contact. Not vividly, like when she's caught shying away… just more out of a dazed, alcohol-induced rejection to maintain an actual eye-to-eye communication with any living person. She's somewhere else, and Spencer's not used to the absence of meaningful eye-messages. Spencer's used to saying everything with a rapid glance and a flutter of lashes. She doesn't exactly know how to help in this one.

"Eventually we'll be old news", she offers, trying out the optimistic. "It's already over."

At least the nightmare is. Maybe not the noise left by it, the unwanted fame, the stupid texts, the memories.

"Yeah", Aria gives the pessimistic turn, "and then Garret will be on trial and we'll be news again, or Mona will start talking and we'll be news again."

"Or I'll show someone my boobs and we'll be news again."

They all erupt in laughter, while a chill runs down everyone's spine.

Spencer quickly leans forward and extends her arm to take possession of Emily's flask.

"Okay, you're not drinking anymore", she warns, still trying to suppress her inappropriate outburst of laughter. "What did you bring in there?"

Maybe they should all have it.

"Hey." Emily ignores the question as she watches the flask go with a frown. "Isn't this supposed to be a party?"

Hanna touches her curls again. "You're right, Em", she says, flashing a concerned glance in Spencer's direction. "Let's have fun together."

It might be inappropriate  _fun_ , and that's what Spencer fears as she tries to bite back more silly laughter. Whatever Emily brought in that flask, it's making Emily both drunk  _and_  funny. It's not new, though. Emily tends to get dark and funny when she drinks.

Still hesitantly, Spencer returns the flask.

"Yeah, let's have fun together", Emily corroborates in a bitter tone, taking the flask greedily back in her hands. "Thanks, Spence."

There is an uncomfortable silence when they look at each other in quick succession, making the sort of tacit agreement that binds the three of them in a secret alliance to not keep up with Emily's pace and to look after her when she gets too wasted. She's been alone during the whole summer, away in Haiti helping to build houses for the poor (Haiti is after all one of the poorest countries in the world, and the earthquake took disgrace to a whole new level, much like the earthquake in their lives took Emily's pain to seams still unknown), and right now it doesn't seem like it's been such a good idea if she used the alone time to mourn Maya in alcohol and numbness. But now they're all together and the three of them can  _help_  her out of it, or rather _through_  it. They have to find a way to do it, though. Let her drink her brains out and then put her to sleep in a big bed and just lie down with their eyes open until it's a new day and then what? Spencer doesn't really know – yet. But she will find a solution.

Just give her time and a notebook.

In a prolongation of the fun-pretence, Hanna lifts her glass to the center of the invisible square around which they're sitting in two different couches.

It  _is_  indeed a party, the night  _is_  indeed young.

"So what should we toast to?", the blonde asks. "Vodka? Is there vodka in Tahiti?"

"Haiti", Spencer corrects, smiling despite herself. "Very different place, Han."

"So vodka?"

Emily offers an almost noiseless grunt. "Rum."

"Is that rum you got in there?" Spencer takes the chance to point at the flask. "Haitian rum?"

Hanna's influence makes her think of a Tahitian dance.

"Titian rum", Hanna spurts the words while sipping on her vodka with coke. "Tits and rum."

" _Tahitian_ ", Spencer corrects once more, censoring the thought of  _naked_  Tahitian dancers. "Nothing to do with tits though."

"I thought you said Haiti."

"I…"

"There's nothing in Haiti", Emily interrupts the banter with a serious expression, "not even rum." She looks down, thinking. "But I crossed to the Dominican Republic and the rum's amazing there."

Hanna gently slaps Emily's thigh. "I thought you were there building houses, not learning to taste different kinds of rum."

"I can do both, you know." Emily answers with a joyless little smirk.

"So rum?"

Emily doesn't say anything in response, but Spencer shakes her head. "I'm not toasting to rum cause I'm having vodka and it's nonsense."

"And God forbid we toast to nonsense", Hanna rolls her eyes, "right?"

Spencer smirks back and sips on her own vodka. "You got me."

"Let's toast to boobs", Aria idly proposes, still lying down on her back all along her side of the couch. "Or to the evening news. Or to beeping cell phones."

"You're so full of joy tonight, Ar."

"It's called sarcasm."

"And it wouldn't be fair to Spencer's boobs", Hanna adds, causing a new riot of laughter in Aria and the shadow of a true smile in Emily. "So not fair."

Spencer wants to ask what's unfair about her boobs, but all that comes out of her throat is a dry  _ha_.

"Ha."

She does know what's unfair about them, in light of a comparison to the other three girls.

"Don't take it personally, I still like you", Hanna mocks, her face glowing under the impact of the joke on Aria and Emily. "And you have nice legs."

" _Show me your legs_ ", Emily enunciates in imitation of Spencer, arching one of her brows, and it sounds almost perfect because of the hoarse drunken tone, " _A_."

Spencer can't help but grin at Emily's rendition.

"But I'm wearing jeans tonight."

"Don't worry", Hanna continues, directing her attention to Emily, "she shows her legs every time she gets a chance so you'll just have to wait a couple hours until she puts on her PJs."

Spencer points an accusing finger at Hanna. "I do  _not_."

"Well, you should."

"Nothing I haven't seen before", Emily mumbles with the little snicker she's showing off tonight. "Really."

"Ladies", Aria calls, "so are we gonna toast to legs or not?"

"It's not fair to toast to Spencer's legs either", Hanna thinks aloud. "I mean, why her?"

Spencer lectures to prove a point. "I do believe we  _all_  have legs." In truth, she wouldn't mind toasting to legs. She does like to show her legs on occasion. Legs are cool.

"But Aria's are shorter", Hanna counters. "Not fair to her."

Emily moves her left hand, the one not holding the flask, to call for attention. "We can always toast to Spencer's boobs and to Aria's legs", she proposes with a straight face. "You know, in a so not fair kinda thing."

"No way", Aria complains. "What about you?"

"I'm pretty sure we can find  _so-not-fair_  parts of your bodies we could also  _toast_  to", Spencer fires back, although she's not so sure at all because both Hanna and Emily are gorgeous and she's still trying to think of something else to say. "Like…"

She closes her mouth when Emily shoots a slightly defying glance.

"Try."

Maybe it's not so easy to think of one.

"She can't find any", Hanna concludes, "cause we're awesome hot, Em."

Spencer leans back in frustration, her nose wrinkled. "Just give me time." But she can't fool herself, she knows she's not going to find any parts to make fun of.

"What about toasting to...", Aria reacts, joining in the silly brainstorming, "I don't know… Us?"

"Is that sarcasm again?"

Aria kicks Spencer's shin with her tiny shoeless foot. "No, this is actually called sappyness."

"It's called  _love_."

"Right, that too."

A light bulb goes off in Spencer's head while she jokes around with Aria, and she suddenly lifts her vodka-and-lemonade glass. "I got one."

"Did you find a body part to toast to?"

"I  _did_."

She can see the curiosity in Hanna's face.

"Spill it."

"Your  _brain_."

Hanna seems to take it okay. "Funny, funny."

" _So. Not. Fair_."

There's a glimmer in Hanna's eye. "What about Emily?"

Well, finding that one's proving to be slightly harder for Spencer, but just give her time... Maybe a couple of days or weeks and some more vodka down her throat.

"You can always go for my boobs too, you know", Emily helps out, "for their deathly effects."

Spencer blinks, the ground moving underneath the couch she shares with Aria. "No." She doesn't want Emily talking like that. But perhaps it's good, perhaps it's healthy to talk like that when she's drinking with her friends. Let her drink. Let her loosen up. That's the plan. But no toasting to deathly boobs. That's totally out of line. Even for tonight.

"Too bad."

"We can't repeat one", Spencer mutters lamely in explanation. "It has to be a new one."

Emily shrugs, her eyes disconnecting again, and Spencer realizes they should find an official toast, something serious to celebrate about them.

"Keep thinking, Spence."

Spencer makes a puffing groaning sound. "Working on it." She needs more vodka so she drinks again, but no images come to mind.

"One year later...", Hanna whines impatiently. "I think she's got an ugly toe."

"Prove it", Aria says, laughing. "Em."

"Seriously?"

But she's already taking off her left sock and extending her foot for the others to see.

"Nah", Aria denies, "it's not ugly."

All the toes look actually sort of cute.

"Doesn't work either", Spencer agrees, glancing over the carefully polished but discreet nails. "Still nothing."

"She's too perfect", Hanna says, trying to avoid Emily's hitting sock. "Although that sock smells."

Emily widens her eyes. "It doesn't.

"Prove it."

"No way", Emily exclaims, looking terrified while she puts the sock away from everybody's reach. "No way."

"So, anyway, to boobs, legs and brains?", Hanna asks. "And to Em because she's perfect."

"And to Em, who's made of perfect glass", Emily corroborates darkly, "and full of alcohol, like a... glass full of alcohol."

"And that would be to your  _liver_ ", Aria hesitantly offers. "Hey, we found your body part."

Emily parts her lips in surprise before narrowing her eyes slyly. "You're right, Aria."

" _So not fair_ ", Hanna declares, straightening her posture to prepare the toast. "Spencer? Wanna be the one?"

Spencer denies solemnly with her head.

"I have a better one." She stands up, feeling a buzz in her head and a weakness in her so-fair legs, and raises her glass in the air. This time it's a formal, official declaration. She wants to offer the right toast. "To boobs, legs, brains and livers", she declares, because the others are expecting the tease to be finished. "To each their own, or their lack of own." She can already see Hanna starting to roll her eyes in impatience. "But, seriously and much more importantly, because I wanna make this very clear to you, my friends, to making it together to senior year."

Because what else can she toast to?

Body parts aside, they're alive, they made it. It's a bitter victory but a victory nonetheless, and their bodies are still walking and breathing and talking, and Emily needs to understand the truth about her boobs and the rest of her body. They're alive. They made it. It's good.

"Not all of us made it."

It's like Emily reads her mind, and the toast is burned.

"I'm sorry", Spencer apologizes immediately, "I didn't mean it like that."

Emily looks down to her flask, accepting the apology, but her jaw clenches a little. "I know."

"To us", Hanna intervenes quickly, claiming back Aria's idea, and they all nod in agreement. "And to Maya."

"To Maya", Emily tremulously announces the official toast. "That's the one."

They all repeat the mantra toast, Spencer too, to Maya, who left, to Maya, who's not here anymore and got caught in the middle of a killer game they don't really understand yet, perhaps they never will, perhaps no one will ever talk, and Emily ingests a whole gulp of her flask down her throat before another silence settles.

It's not an easy silence.

It's a silence dyed in red and also in a slight, pointless sense of guilt.

Spencer plops down on the couch again, thinking she should have stuck to the body parts after all.

"So did you like the courses you took at Hollis?", Aria asks in order to change the topic, her body shifting towards Spencer. "What classes did you exactly take this time?"

"And that is  _just_  my definition of  _fun_ ", Emily deadpans again, her tone so sharp Spencer shuts up just when she's about to offer a reply about college. However, Emily smiles wryly and moves the flask forward as an invitation for her to continue. "Go on, Spence."

"It was…"

Spencer's confident tone wavers in self-doubt. How many mistakes is she going to make?

"Don't act like there aren't a couple things you can tell us about the summer that sound like  _real_  fun, Spencer."

Spencer turns to Hanna. "Like what?"

"Like what about the classes you took at Toby's  _body_?"

Of course, it's up to Hanna to change the topic to her sexual life.

"And please remind me", Spencer curtly answers, "why would that be any of your business?"

Hanna doesn't seem put out by Spencer's sullen retort. They're used to bickering about things. But, actually, if Spencer had to tell anyone, she would probably tell Hanna about Toby. And, besides, it might be a good change of topic.

"So?", Hanna insists. "Did you show him your boobs? Have you joined us in the grown-up department?"

Half-rolling her eyes, Spencer can't help but openly smile at the image of her three friends in the grown-up sex club. Like being a grown-up is only a matter of getting intimate with a boyfriend… or a girlfriend (and the guilt grips her stomach again after she catches a glimpse of Emily's absentminded stare).

"Han, I  _founded_  that club while you were still trying to say hi to Sean in freshman year."

It sounds cocky, but the look Hanna gives her can only be described as mocking. "I think you're confusing the debate club with the grown-up club."

"And I think you're confusing sex with being an adult."

"And I think adults have sex if they wanna live a long life", Hanna counters, "and they also get a job and make money and, you know, drink soy milk and whatever."

"I'm  _so_  never drinking soy milk."

"Me either."

"See? So you agree with me."

"The point is what are you doing with Toby?"

"She fell in love", Emily blurts out in a really low voice, looking up only for a moment as if remembering something important that explains all. "She's a romantic."

Hanna turns to offer a confused look to Emily. "That doesn't mean she can't have sex, and we're all waiting for her to start acting on it."

"So you guys can keep waiting."

"Even Aria took the big step, Spencer, drop the good-girl act."

Aria sits back up at the mention of her name. "Hey, mine wasn't a good-girl act, Ezra could actually go to  _jail_ , like, for real."

"He can  _still_  go to jail, Ar", Spencer points out softly, "but you did it."

Aria blushes in small roses around her cheeks. "It was just… necessary."

"Tell Spencer about it", Hanna encourages. "I get it."

"Mine's not a good-girl act either." Spencer takes the defensive stance, but then decides to throw in a little detail into the conversation. "Honestly, I have to admit to having all kinds of moral dilemmas now that he has to come  _here_  to get a shower  _every_ morning because he's still fixing the pipes in his loft."

Her will is wavering and flailing, and maybe it's wrong but she just loves to feel tempted. She'll probably join the full grown-up club soon enough, but she wants to do it properly after the long series of… attention-seeking, boy-crazy stunts that stain her extravagant past. Maybe it's the good-girl act after all, although a part of her needs to feel like a good girl, and needs it with Toby because Toby is the right guy for her. There's no one in the world who's better for her. There's no one more truthful and she's too fed up with the lies.

Hanna winks, delighted with Spencer's confession. "I spot a six pack."

Spencer quirks her brow. "No kidding."

"Why is this interesting again?", Emily asks, snapping her eyes up to question Hanna and Spencer. "I'd rather go back to the description of college courses."

But Hanna plainly ignores Emily. "You're gonna kill that poor boy's testicles."

"Hanna!", Spencer shouts, alarmed. "Shut up."

"It's true", Hanna advises. "And you're a tease."

"I am  _not_ a tease."

"Seriously, Han", Aria argues in Spencer's defence, although she knows well of their confidential banter, "if she wants to do it at her own pace, that doesn't mean she's a tease."

"That's what I'm saying, Ar, she's not  _doing_ it."

The verbal battle commences.

"Why don't you call  _him_  a tease if he's showing off his body to  _me_?", Spencer makes her point. "It's not me who's walking around  _naked_."

"Gross."

Emily's declaration sounds strangely crude for being sweet and nice Emily, and Spencer turns to her in confusion. Is this conversation bothering her too?

"Is male nudity a problem now?"

Emily shoots a piercing look Spencer has never seen before, but she still hesitates a little before firing back in that strangely hoarse voice of the night. What is she drinking? What is she drinking that makes her so unpredictable and dark?

"It is if you're talking about my best friend's nudity."

She doesn't understand. " _What_?"

"Are you talking about Toby?", Hanna asks Emily, clearly amused. "Or about Spencer?"

Emily shrugs her shoulders, already losing interest. "Both."

" _Come on_." Spencer feels clearly offended by the implications. "You  _cannot_  be serious."

Emily doesn't add anything, though, she just sort of offers a knowing smirk and takes another sip from her flask.

Hanna whistles in surprise. "Toby's nakedness's offensive to Emily, look what we found out."

"And Toby's best-friend-ness is offensive to  _me_ ", Spencer accuses, not letting go. She can't believe Emily just called Toby her best friend, even if she did it just to tease her. Because she did it just to tease her, right? It must be part of the funny-yet-bitter contents of the flask. And maybe she should be relieved that Emily's at least taking some course of communication through her drunkenness. And maybe she should be even more relieved that her best friend considers her boyfriend another best friend… only for some reason it doesn't really relieve her at all. "Are you trying to piss me off?"

"I didn't know you found the male body offensive, Em", Aria contributes with her own reflection. "I mean, Toby's got an amazing body, there's no denying that."

Emily rolls her eyes. "I'm not, I was just teasing  _her_." She pauses, lifting her chin a little as she turns to look at Spencer with a minimum spark of coal in her eyes. And that is also new. "I actually think he's totally sexy, I don't know why you're not in bed with him  _right now_."

Reaching out for one of the cushions behind her, Spencer fires a cushion-shot that hits Emily's forehead.

"Watch out!", Emily shrieks, protecting the flask. "I'll protect  _this_  with my own life."

"Well, maybe you should protect your liver."

"Or my lack of it."

"You know you're lucky you can't  _really_  piss me off, don't you?"

Emily looks away briefly, pursing her lips. "Yeah, I am  _so_  lucky."

"You two", Hanna calls out, picking up the cushion from the floor and throwing it back to Spencer. "I guess you could consider Toby sexy, in an axe-murderer kind of way."

There are too many open battles taking place right now for Spencer.

"At least it's not a smelly hobo kind of way."

"Hey, it's a smelly hobo with a rich mother kind of way."

"But you fell for him when he was just a  _poor_  smelly hobo."

"And you fell for Toby when he was just a suspected axe murderer."

"I thought that was Emily", Aria intervened. "I mean, wasn't she the one who…?"

Emily shakes her head. "No, I didn't  _fall_  for him."

" _He_  fell for her", Hanna explains, "and Emily just played the straight card."

Spencer seizes the opportunity. "And then they became  _best friends_."

Emily raises the flask in her hand as if to toast to that. "Exactly."

"Toby's such a lucky guy", Hanna adds wickedly. "He fell for the gay girl and for the  _I-want-to-wait_  girl."

" _Shut up_ ", Spencer menaces, unable to control all the fronts. Thank god Aria's sort of on her side. "He… I fell for him and he's very happy with  _me_."

"Does it bother you that he used to like Emily?", Hanna asks, but then seems to think of something else and turns to Emily. "Em, did you ever have a crush on him? Like a straight crush? Does that exist?"

Emily nods a few times, insistently. "It does."

"So?"

Spencer fixates her gaze on Emily. "Yeah,  _so_?"

"I guess I sorta had a crush on him", Emily muses, frowning in remembrance. "I just didn't want to kiss him."

"Hey, just like Spencer!"

The same cushion that previously hit Emily is shot to land on Hanna's shoulder.

"I  _do_  kiss him and it's hot!"

"And you're a tease."

"I am  _not_  a tease."

"What's a straight crush, Han?", Aria asks out of the blue, her eyes a deep green resonating with thoughts and questions. "Like a girl crush?"

"A straight crush for a gay person", Hanna explains, not really wanting to get deep in thought. "What's your girl crush, Aria?"

"Spencer."

Spencer jumps in surprise and grins widely. With so many open fronts it's a pleasure to have Aria on her side. "That's sweet, Ar,  _thanks_."

"But I don't wanna kiss you or anything", Aria warns. "It's kinda like Emily with Toby. But I do love you."

"I love you too and I totally don't mind it if you want to kiss me."

"You'd win points if you were dating Melissa, Ar."

There's no cushion to shoot at Hanna now.

"You guys, cut it out, that's over."

"What's your girl crush, Spencer?"

" _You_ ", Spencer responds pointing at Hanna to watch her reaction. "Obviously."

Hanna chuckles. "So much sexual tension between us."

"Definitely."

"So much  _impossible_  sexual tension", Emily states, slurring all the s-sounds. "And you totally left Aria out of this, Spence."

"No, that's my  _other_  girl crush."

Emily stares right through her, and the communication seems to be flowing, only Spencer doesn't really understand the direction of it. "You have so much love for everyone."

"I love you too", Spencer declares in her raspier, flirtier voice (and she blames the vodka and Hanna), "but you're more of my  _gay_  crush."

"Is that even possible?", Aria wonders. "I mean, Em's a girl too, so technically…"

"Technically?", Emily whines aloud, scowling badly. "I  _am_  a girl."

"With a male best friend", Spencer renews the attack, "right?"

Emily smirks at the new challenge, and for the first time during the night she seems to be having some real fun with this conversation. "True."

There's a momentary silence that Hanna uses to drink.

"Technically Spencer has too many girl crushes", she concludes happily, "but you guys lost the fight cause she picked me out first."

Then she pours more vodka down her glass, and extends her hand to refill Spencer's glass.

So much for the sober agreement.

"What about you?", Spencer asks, pointing at Hanna with her index finger. "Girl crush."

"Aria."

Spencer fakes a pout. "That hurts."

"You're cute too, but you're a tease, and you don't wanna have sex."

" _Come on_."

"I can't believe no one chose Emily", Aria exclaims, furrowing her brows in disbelief, "but thanks, Han."

"They're afraid to be news again."

Emily's gaze is intense now, nothing to do with the previous absentmindedness, and Spencer decides to use a more confrontational approach to the bitterness.

" _I_  chose  _you_ ", she hits back, "I said you were my gay crush."

"Yeah, your  _pity_  crush", Emily answers, and now she's the one slouching back on the couch. "Does that exist? It sounds like pity sex but worse, cause it doesn't really involve sex."

"Nothing with Spencer involves sex", Hanna contributes, "as Toby knows."

"It's not a pity crush", Spencer denies. Then she looks at Hanna. "And you shut up."

"You wish", Hanna winks in Spencer's direction, but then turns to talk to Emily. "Em, I just picked Ar because Spencer didn't choose her, but you know you're the Romeo to my Juliet."

Emily doesn't seem to buy it or care about Romeo and Juliet anyway, and she half sits up again, propping herself up on her elbows. "I don't want  _any_  of your pity crushes."

Pouting in Spencer's direction, Hanna wraps her arms around Emily. "We totally hurt her feelings, Spencer."

"And she hurt mine", Spencer protests, "when she said Toby was her best friend."

"That's different", Emily says, "cause I just said that to…" She seems to consider it for a second, as if slightly amazed. "I don't know why I said it, but it pissed you off."

"You don't know why you said it?"

And, more importantly, why would  _that_  piss her off? The question suddenly jumps at her. Sure, Emily spoke with a strange, mysterious bitterness that she can't decipher at all. Is she feeling like she can trust Toby more than she can trust  _her_? Maybe that's what is pissing her off. Because that is just _wrong_. Rationally, it makes her happy to think of Emily's and Toby's friendship. She doesn't mind Toby liked Emily first. She thinks it's natural because who wouldn't like Emily first? Besides, if it wasn't for Emily, she would've never changed her mind about Toby. The three of them will always be connected; Emily's act of kindness towards Toby and Toby's natural attraction to Emily brought  _them_  together, brought Spencer in the mix too, in such a way that it's always, somehow, three of them. Well, that sounds weird. But it feels like an eternal bond. However, one thing is that and another is… she doesn't want them to be  _best_  friends. There's only  _one_  best friend. Or two. Three. She wants Emily on her side. They belong together. Okay, so that doesn't sound right either. But they're best friends. Toby's a good friend and a boyfriend. Everyone's got their own place. Spencer trusts Emily and Emily trusts Spencer. End of story. That's it.  _C'est fini._

"I'm drunk", Emily says as an explanation. "But… it's funny when you get worry lines."

"Great."

Now she has to worry about worry lines, and she's only seventeen.

"Why did it piss you off?"

"Because you said it was gross."

What was gross again? Oh, right, nudity.

"I was just teasing you."

"About what?"

"About… whatever."

Spencer does what she does best: she pushes for answers. "What are you trying to say?"

Emily takes a quiet, slow breath, her cheeks puffed out. "I don't want your pity gay crushes."

"Well, certainly you don't have a choice in the matter."

"But Toby's body's  _fine_."

"Then what's gross?"

" _Nothing_."

Emitting an annoyed snort Emily slips back on the coach, and the eye-contact is lost again.

This devil of a night…

Apparently there's no way to fight Emily's bitterness tonight, but Spencer is a persistent person and she knows she can get the girl back to life, so she stands up. A buzz starts to run around her head (vodka: so much for the sober agreement), although a couple of clumsy steps are enough for her long body to slide between Hanna and Emily on the couch.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm showing you my gay love."

Emily shoots her an annoyed glance, but quickly moves her flask to the other side to make sure of its survival.

"You can't touch that."

"I don't care about your flask."

"It's just that I don't like vodka and that's all you have here."

She's so cute when she explains herself.

Spencer is lying on her stomach, half of her body hanging awkwardly out of the couch, but she's still agile enough to stretch and plant a kiss on Emily's cheek. It resonates around the room like one of those splendid kisses her grandmother used to give her before bed when she was little.

"There you go."

Emily widens her eyes in fake mock, although she looks too puffy and heavy-lidded to feign true surprise. "Sloppy drunk pity kisses,  _thank you_."

"Where's the sloppiness?"

"You smell of lemon."

"And you  _smell_  of something else", Spencer accuses, unable to identify the concrete quality of the alcoholic cloud that surrounds Emily, "and what the heck are you drinking?"

"What do you care?"

She tries to catch the flask to sniffle and maybe taste its mysterious contents, but Emily's fast enough to move and hide it behind the couch arm.

"No way."

"Confess", Spencer demands. "What's in there?"

"I don't even remember what I put."

"That's smart of you."

Emily shoots her a resentful look. At least they're communicating now. So this is good. This is an improvement. A drunken one.

Spencer decides to plant another kiss on Emily's other cheek, and the girl struggles to liberate herself of Spencer's force and weight.

"Stop it."

This time it doesn't resonate because it's a normal, cute kiss, and Spencer laughs, her chin resting on her palm after the successful attack on both cheeks.

"You were totally asking for it, Em."

The look she receives now is not exactly resentful, but it's so deeply vulnerable and hurt it scares Spencer a little. Maybe she should really confiscate the flask, no matter what Hanna's trying to do with this party tonight so they all have fun and Emily feels free to express her pain amongst her closest friends, but then again maybe it's good that Emily's at last showing some emotions, and she decides to let it be once more. Be the flask. Be the drunk. Destroy the liver. Embrace all the vulnerable, hurt gazes in the world. All of it. Spencer can take it.

She stares at Emily, who's staring at the ceiling.

"Has that chandelier always been there?"

"Huh?" Spencer turns a little to look up at the ceiling. "Yeah."

"It's sort of like a kaleidoscope."

Never in her life has Spencer thought the hideous chandelier of her grandparents looks like an actual kaleidoscope, but she turns to stare up at it again.

"You think?"

"Minus the colors."

How can it be a kaleidoscope then? Maybe it's better not to contradict Emily now.

"It looks pretty with all the lights on."

"It does?"

"Want me to show you?"

"Now?"

"Why not?"

She moves away, trying to find the balance to stand up, when she remembers there are a few bulbs that are blown and it's not really going to look that pretty. So many doubts. She's actually in a nice warm position right now, and she doesn't really want to move.

"Aren't you going?"

Damn it.

"Fine."

Propping her body up on her palms, Spencer struggles to stand up and move towards the wall that is immediately next to the entrance. Things look granular like an old photograph, and there's this constant buzz while her body stumbles around the furniture of the barn, but she finds the correct switch and turns the chandelier on like a Christmas tree. Lights break out the space and burst in crystals murdering the old photographic grain. It's suddenly another day, another time, and Spencer narrows her eyes at the impact of the change. Whoever thought of a chandelier in a barn must have been totally crazy. It was probably Wren's idea of a British joke and nobody ever decided to change it after he was gone. Oh, well, Wren. He is definitely a crazy guy. Charming. Disarmingly so. But she shouldn't think of him. Wren is forbidden fruit. Especially now that she spots a six pack every morning. Toby. Toby's nice and warm like a blanket. And he has a better body than Wren, actually… that's for sure. Then there's the motorcycle, and the pick up truck, and his scent... Toby wins.

When she goes back to the couch Hanna's hand is covering her eyes.

"Are you trying to blind us?"

Spencer shrugs. "It's for Em." She drops on the same spot on the coach. "You like it?"

Emily's staring at the ceiling with squinty heavy-lidded eyes.

"It's pretty."

The light baths her caramel skin and the chocolate brown of her eyes looks melty, like desert. Chocolate mousse. Or chocolate… what's the name of that desert when hot chocolate fudge melts all over vanilla ice-cream? It should be caramel ice-cream. Whatever it is, it's weird to think about eating Emily's eyes. It's weird. It's probably the vodka running through her system. But her eyes are so pretty now it's difficult not to turn to a culinary metaphor.

She stares at her again. "I told you."

Emily nods. "I like it."

"Do you see colors?"

"What?" Emily frowns, confused. "No."

"No kaleidoscope."

"But the form's similar."

Spencer turns a second to check. "Yeah, kind of." It must be the crystals, perhaps. Anyway it's difficult to avert her gaze from the chocolate fudge right now, and after a while Emily brushes her hand away against her face.

"Stop staring."

"I'm not staring."

"You totally are."

" _Gay crush_ ", she says huskily. "What can I do?"

She feels another hand on her hair, fondly petting her, and she makes a purring sound.

"Can you two stop being gay for each other?", Hanna whispers in a sweet laugh. "We're gonna fall asleep."

Hanna and Aria have been talking all this time about some reality show they're both addicted to, and Spencer moves to face them, her legs still hanging awkwardly down the coach.

"What do you wanna talk about?"

"We can go back to Toby."

Spencer grunts. "Hanna."

"I just wanna know what your plans are."

"My plans are…" Wait until I'm ready. Wait until it's right. But she's ready and it's right. She just wants to feel like she's finally a good girl. She's always been a good girl. She just stopped being a good girl sometime after Ian. Or before Ian. Ugh. Maybe she's never been a good girl. "You know? I'm just glad I didn't get to seduce Wren."

Immediately after uttering this particular confession she regrets it, because Hanna leans towards her in shock.

"What do you mean seduce Wren?"

"I mean exactly what you heard."

She never told them. Only Aria knows about it. Aria gets her not-so-good-girl side.

"When did  _that_  happen?"

"Some months ago", Spencer reluctantly explains, "after I broke up with Toby."

"You cheated on Toby?", Emily accuses from behind. "Why?"

Spencer turns to look back at her.

"I didn't  _cheat_  on him because we were  _not_  together."

"Yeah, but…"

"It wasn't cheating."

"It was."

She stares at her again. The chocolate fudge is fiery now. Well, that's a lot of communication.

"It wasn't."

"You didn't want to break up with him."

"But we  _weren't_  together."

"Are you gonna tell us the story?", Hanna comes back. "I mean, Em, I'm sorry about your best friend  _Toby_ , but let her tell us."

Emily closes her mouth, and Spencer turns her head to observe the other two. Aria shrugs in an I-told-you-so kind of gesture, even though she had told her they would both understand.

"It was after I found out about Jason and when you were trying to convince me Melissa was A", Spencer sums up, shooting an accusing glance to Hanna, because Hanna was the most insistent of them in the persecution of her sister, "so I got drunk because life was pissing me off, and Melissa too, and you guys too, and there he was..." There he was in a bar like he always was everywhere when she somehow needed him, popping up like a fairy tale shameless prince in search of a messed up princess. "I ran into him, I ended up in his apartment, and the rest is  _not_  History."

" _Oh. My. God_ ", Hanna blurts, "you went to his apartment?"

"Yeah."

"And you didn't have sex with him?"

This is sort of embarrassing. It would have been better to keep them in the dark. But then why? It's a good night to share. It's a party. It's freedom. Freedom is sweet. She's free.

"I was going to." She feels her cheeks flame up. "But he… well, he was a gentleman and he decided to, you know, I was so wasted, so he kinda didn't want to take advantage of me."

" _Lame_ ", Hanna exclaims. "Why?"

"I think he was cute", Aria offers. "You know, in terms of respect and all."

"He  _was_  kind of cute", Spencer agrees. "I slept on his couch the whole night."

"Wren totally wins", Hanna exclaims in wonder. "Goodbye Toby."

"Too bad it's  _my_  decision", Spencer retorts, "cause, trust me,  _Toby_  wins."

"Six pack wins, that's true."

"It's not only that, but yeah."

Someone moves behind – Emily, who has remained silent during the narration of the  _cheating_  events – and Spencer glances back to find her best friend trying to stand up.

"Where are you going?"

She offers her a hand.

"I'm gonna puke."

Spencer gapes in surprise. Does she mean… what does she mean? She  _cannot_  mean she's going to puke in defense of Toby's honour.

"Why?"

"I'm sick."

Obviously.

"Shit."

Emily stumbles away before anyone recovers from the surprise.

"I don't do good with puke", Hanna warns, pushing Spencer's shoulder. "You should go with her."

"I don't do good with puke either."

Aria gets up from her solitary couch. "I'll go."

"No, I'll go", Spencer decides suddenly. "It's my bathroom."

But it's not because it's her bathroom. It's because cheating is not the correct definition of what she did with Wren. It wasn't cheating. And anyway she can't let Emily puke alone.

When she opens the door to the bathroom she finds her sitting on the floor, back leaning against the wall of light purple tiles.

"Are you all right?"

It's a stupid question, and she crouches down in front of her.

"I'm better."

"Did you throw up?"

"Not yet."

It strikes her to see how luminous and yet so sad her face looks, and she reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear with her hand, liberating the skin, allowing her to breathe.

"It wasn't cheating, you know."

They lock eyes, and Emily looks mortified. "I'm sorry I said that."

"It's fine."

"Does Toby know?"

"No, your  _friend_  doesn't know."

Emily rolls her eyes. "I wouldn't like to know if I were him."

She sits on the floor, their feet touching, sock against bare skin, and Spencer examines the delicate long foot before turning to watch the caramel face.

"Don't stare at me."

"I'm not staring."

"Are you worried about me?"

She takes a moment to respond with the truth. "Yeah, a little." It's more than a little, actually, but she doesn't think Emily will like it.

"I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be."

"I miss Maya."

Emily says it so abruptly it's disarming and raw. Spencer doesn't know what to say, except that she knows it, that she understands that's the truth behind all of Emily's words and actions and silences, so she leans forward, wanting to catch her in her arms like that night when they found out about Maya. But all she does is take another strand of hair in her fingers and move it apart from Emily's forehead.

"Em."

The crack in her own voice surprises her.

"It's gotten worse since I came back."

Spencer nods, alarmed at the fact that it's worse now than it was five months ago.

"It'll get better."

It sounds lame, formulaic.

"What if it doesn't?"

"It will."

Emily leans her head back against the wall and her eyes fill with tears. "I don't want you guys worrying about me."

"What can we do to help you?"

She closes her eyes. "Let me drink."

"You've been drinking all night."

"Nobody asked me who my girl crush was."

Spencer smiles at the abrupt change. Talking to Emily tonight is like driving down a sharp-bended road in a moonless night. "So who's your girl crush?"

"She died too."

Tears also sting Spencer's eyes but she bites them back. Alison died too.

"You can have other girl crushes, Em", she assures her, "and you  _will_  have other girl crushes, and also more than that."

"There's something wrong."

"There's nothing wrong, Em."

She doesn't exactly know what she means.

"With me."

"There's nothing wrong with you", Spencer insists, and that was the response she was fearing. "You are perfect."

"Maya died because of me."

"We don't know that."

"We don't know  _anything_."

She says it with anger because, after all, there's not only sorrow in her. There's also the hopeless inability to understand why everything happened, the reasons behind death, behind murder.

Spencer sighs, trying a different approach. "So tell me your girl crush now, whoever it is."

Emily opens her eyes. "No one."

"Say any name", Spencer proposes, "even if it's just a..." She thinks about the best wording. "A mere make-out objective possibility."

"A what?"

"Someone you'd make out with given the chance, basing on her objective qualities."

She doesn't know why she's proposing this, but she wants to offer Emily the possibility of the future.

"Do you want to make out with Hanna?", Emily asks after a moment of dubious consideration. "Because she's your girl crush."

Spencer coughs. "No."

"See?"

Okay, Emily is right. "So think of a girl like Toby." Saying this is the strangest thing ever.

"There's no one."

"Toby's your girl crush, then."

Emily smiles, and it's small but it's true, and it illuminates the bathroom. Finally, a real smile. And Spencer got it out of her. "Guess so."

Spencer smiles too, but frowns. "I'm not sure I like that outcome."

"Are you jealous?"

"No, it's just… my body reacts to his being considered a girl."

Emily seems a little worried. "You know I never actually  _really_  liked him, right?"

"Yeah."

They look at each other and they smile wider and it suddenly feels so right she feels tempted to get lost in the feeling, reaching out to touch her face and to move away some invisible hairs, reaching out to her chocolate eyes that are staring back in all kinds of meaningful ways, and she wants to embrace it, to embrace all of it, because they are best friends. And it's weird but it feels right. So she leans closer and she finally hugs her tightly, wraps her arms around her shoulders. And the mind does crazy things, thinks crazy thoughts when it's under the effect of alcohol, because she wants to turn on all the lights in the bathroom to check out the chocolate color again and fantasize with a chocolate desert, and the next thing she does is kiss her temple, and the next thing she does is brush her lips against the breathy meaty lips of her friend, and what did she do?

What did she  _just_  do?

She pulls back, scared.

"Sorry."

Emily widens her eyes in shock. "Why did you do that?"

"I don't know."

There's no reason to panic. It was just a really subtle brush of the lips. It was nothing.

"I don't want a pity kiss, Spencer."

Shit.

"It wasn't a pity kiss."

"I don't need you to kiss me to make me feel better."

"I didn't do it to make you feel better."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I don't know."·

Emily shakes her head, distraught. "You always know what you're doing."

That might be true in other circumstances, but not right now.

"I'm drunk too." But she's not  _that_  drunk.

Emily seems to consider this explanation slightly more plausible, though. " It's my fault."

"What?", Spencer croaks. "Why?"

"I was talking about your pity crush and then..."

"No", Spencer denies, "it has nothing to do with that."

Emily opens her mouth, but doesn't say anything for a moment. "You weren't serious about the gay crush, were you?", she finally finds the strength to ask.

"No", Spencer answers quickly, "no, I was just... we were joking, and I was... we were talking about girl crushes, and I was just..."

"Flirting."

Spencer gulps. "Yeah." It's true. But it was not exactly  _serious_  flirting. "Maybe."

"So this is because we're drunk", Emily states. "And because you feel sorry for me."

"It's not that", Spencer refuses to accept that explanation again. Perhaps it's the moment to start denying the importance of the non-kiss. "But anyway it's  _nothing_."

Emily doesn't seem so convinced, but she nods in agreement. "Okay."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

They don't move, they're paralyzed, they're frozen in time.

It's scary.

"You don't have to be afraid of me", Spencer tries to verbalize the awkwardness. "It's... It won't happen again, it's just a stupid little thing, and I just got a little carried away with the flirting, but it's nothing."

It's not like they were flirting when it happened. She shouldn't drink alcohol around people. She gets too flirty and too sentimental and too kissy. She's not a good girl. She's never been a good girl. She's not going to make it in the good girl world. She's screwed, but this is Emily, and what was she thinking? She was thinking of eating chocolate eyes. Eating eyes. Well, that is something best friends do... they eat eyes. She should never drink alcohol.

She doesn't see it coming.

There's a flicker of chocolate eyes to her mouth but she doesn't see it until she  _feels_  it on her lips and this time the tongue ventures out, and she kisses back, she kisses  _back_  without a doubt.

It's a real kiss.

It's a real kiss this time and it feels good.

It's short, slightly rushed, it lasts until Emily pulls away, pushing back.

"Shit."

"What was that?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry", Emily apologizes now, sliding further along the wall to gain more distance. "I'm sorry."

"I..." Spencer has no words, the taste of Emily's mix-of-alcohols still in her mouth. "How did that happen?"

"I'm not okay, I'm seriously not okay."

"Am I your real  _girl_  crush?" It's amazing she doesn't have another question to ask.

Emily looks terribly confused. "No." But she seems clear about this.

"So it just...", she stutters, "you just did it because it's..."

"I can't cheat on Maya."

"You're not", Spencer tries. "We're not... It's..."

"You can't cheat on Toby."

"We're not cheating."

"But we just kissed, like, a real kiss."

Yes.

"We're friends", Spencer starts to verbalize explanations, "and we're drunk, and it's obviously a problem, and..."

"We've been drunk before."

"But not in this situation."

In this situation when Emily looks desperate and broken and destroyed but she smiles, she smiles, and it's because Spencer gets her to smile, and Spencer's not a normal drunk person. That is clear. She can't drink around people. She can't drink around Emily either, apparently.

Emily looks at her for reassurance. "What is this situation?"

"All of this", Spencer struggles, "it's been hard for you, and for me it's..."

"I  _can't_  kiss you."

"We didn't really kiss", Spencer concludes, even though she doesn't even know why it has happened in the first place, or in the second. And Emily has no clue either. "We're friends, I was just trying to comfort you, and I made a mistake, and then that's it, it's not a real kiss."

"It's not?"

"No."

She knows this is what she has to say to stop Emily from freaking out more.

"Toby..."

"Toby's not gonna know because this stays here, this is... this is us, not anyone else."

"But..."

"But  _nothing_ , Em."

"I know you're gonna freak out about this, Spencer."

Probably. In the morning.

"I'm not freaking out cause we probably won't even remember this."

"What if  _I_  remember?"

"You're not."

Emily extends her arm to get a hold of her omnipresent flask, but Spencer stops her.

"You can't drink anymore."

"I  _have_  to."

"No."

Emily shoots a pleading glance. " _Please_ ", she begs, "I can't deal with messing  _us_  up now, Spencer."

"This is  _not_  your fault."

"I  _kissed_  you."

"After  _I_  did."

"But you didn't really, you didn't..."

And then Spencer offers her the flask. She knows she shouldn't. She knows it's going to make Emily sick. But Emily's freaking out, and Spencer doesn't know how to control it, and maybe she can let her drink some more until she falls asleep and all is forgotten until tomorrow's hangover.

Emily mutters her gratitude as she holds on to her flask.

"We should go back", Spencer says, glancing towards the door that gives way to the rooms where Hanna and Aria wait for them. But first she turns to check on Emily again. "Please tell me we're okay with this."

Emily nods, her gaze glazed but intense.

Chocolate glaze.

Chocolate glassé.

Desert.

Something is so wrong with her.

"Are  _you_  okay?", Emily asks with a look of intense concern. "Cause if..."

"I'm okay if you're okay."

Emily nods repeatedly. "Okay."

She helps her to stand up and they leave the bathroom to join their oblivious friends, and Spencer knows she's going to freak out in the morning, and she knows she was the one who messed up, and she's starting to suspect she does have a gay crush after all, and she's just worried about Emily's reaction to this, although tomorrow she will also be worried about Toby because, well, sometimes she does have a conscience that bothers her when she crosses too many lines. But she keeps her poker face on, and the party slowly dies.

After a while Hanna falls asleep on the couch, and Emily's so wasted Aria and Spencer help her walk to Spencer's bedroom to sleep. They leave her there, and Spencer doesn't stay.

It's another mistake.

Only three hours later does Spencer realize her miscalculation, when she wakes up stretched all over one of the couches and she feels like checking out on Emily, and Emily is nowhere to be found, Emily is just not there anymore, and she looks for her like she looked for Alison all around her house, only this time the weight, the weight of it all is so much worse because she's not that innocent girl that she used to be two years ago. The night is not young in Rosewood when Spencer, Aria and Hanna find Emily standing over Alison's empty grave.

The killer game starts again.


	3. See You, See Me, In A New Light

The door opens and pure curly charm appears behind it. It's December and Emily's lips are a purple red from the cold outside and she's shaking in her black leather jacket. New York feels frosty and windy. It's too much for her skin that loves the easy touch of the sun.

"Good evening."

She smiles. It's dazzling. It's one of her specialties in life.

"Emily, you're on time", Mark greets, embracing her in a semi-hug like the first time they met in the street when they said goodbye, back in September. She remembers him. Now they're saying hello. His hands are warm, and so is his body. "Spencer's gonna love it."

Emily knows Spencer is going to like it, if she's still into all matters time-related.

Like how long it took for this catch-up dinner situation to happen.

Emily is nervous and feels guilty about it so she smiles – nervously, not exactly sheepishly. She doesn't say anything. It's always better to stay quiet when she's nervous, and so she does, the calm possession of her body enough to make a statement, and her hand poses on his back (he's tall, discreetly muscular, she can see the appeal) in a demonstration of mutual warmth that she also masters from times so long ago. She's armed with the bottle of red Rioja she bought on her way to the apartment (they told her it was worth it, and she spent one hundred and fifty dollars in it) and, even though they're still beneath the threshold, she offers it to Mark. Red wine like a white flag in a battle of invasion.

"No", he whispers, almost winking, "give it to Spencer."

She nods, and then her body enters the temple of modern living Spencer inhabits now with Mark, the wine held out to mask the uneasiness she feels inside.

He helps her out of her jacket and she looks around to examine the walls.

Books.

"Lots of books", she hears herself say aloud, just to pour words into the silence. "I'm not surprised."

(Obviously, there are books.)

"You know she's a nerd", he confirms. "But not all the time."

His words make her truly smile.

"Are you a nerd too?"

"Can you tell?"

He gives her a serious, grave pose, and he lifts a palm to his well-defined jaw as if caught in deep thought. This time she laughs in response to his act.

"That's a yes?" It's not a question. "I'm not surprised either."

"But maybe I'm fooling you, Emily", he jokes back. He's easy to talk to, and he's also flirty in a goofy way (much like Spencer used to be, perhaps still is). "It's too easy an assumption."

"Right, maybe you're just a good actor."

"You should know, coming from LA." His dark eyes glimmer in the warm atmosphere of the living room. "And Spencer's probably going to kill me for making this moment awkward for you." He says this as he walks away, taking her jacket to an unknown place. "Be right back."

She nods again, using the momentary relief from conversation to inspect the territory.

Some African figures and a Venetian mask cover the free spaces, hanging down the walls, and she doesn't expect that, it's a shock, but she blames it on the time she's not known Spencer (and she blames it on Mark too). It's interesting. The apartment, at least the living room, forms a coherent composition of styles. It's pragmatic, but full of exotic details. It's cool, but warm and cozy in a high-status, elegant way. It smells of leather, of food and also of incense. It's nothing like she would have imagined for Spencer back in the day.

"Right on time."

It's Spencer because it's a rasp coming from behind, and Emily turns around to the voice that is approaching her from what must be the kitchen.

"Hey."

Spencer is wearing the most adorable apron, white with a simple design of a pair of glasses and a drawing of two books on every side. Such a nerd. Always.

"Hey", Spencer says back. "I'm so glad that you're here." She looks nervous too, almost wide-eyed, like Emily is an apparition. Then she seems to realize Mark's absence and a frown appears, wrinkling her forehead. "Where's Mark? He left you alone?"

Emily wants to say she's also glad she's here (although it's not entirely true, she's too nervous now). "He went somewhere with my jacket." That's what she says, instead.

"But he didn't take your purse."

It's true. Emily is still holding a small purse in her right hand.

"Oooops."

"What did I do now?" Mark comes back. "Hmm, right, the purse."

"It's all right", Emily assures. "Really, I have my phone inside, and… it's better if I keep it with me."

"You sure?", Spencer asks, inquisitive. "I can go in a sec. Or Mark."

"Really."

"You're not going to eat with the purse in your hands, though."

Emily rolls her eyes a little. "I can leave it…" She looks around and sees a coffee table. "There. Or anywhere else, Spencer. So don't worry."

Then she hands out the bottle of wine, red wine as a white flag for the right person.

"Rioja." Spencer hums in appreciation, her hostess-disguise on as she grabs the bottle. "Classy."

"I was told it's good", Emily smiles. "Best for the best."

"Nice", Spencer answers, her gaze radiating the intensity she's famous for. "Spanish wine. Is it just good or the best?"

"You'll have to be the one to judge."

"Well, I like it", Spencer asserts, and it sounds strangely devilish. Then she smiles. It's dazzling too. It was always dazzling when it was honest and true. It was Spencer. It is Spencer. And the same Spencer opens her arms. "C'mere."

They hug.

It's longer and warmer, but less confident, than the hug Emily and Mark shared minutes ago.

"This is impressive", Emily admires after their bodies separate, gesturing towards the apartment. "And different."

"You like it?", Spencer asks, looking around too. "It's spacious."

"And expensive", Mark adds. "But Spencer loves it."

"I do love it."

"Then that's it", Emily says, not sure why. "It's all you need."

Spencer shoots her a silent look, but doesn't say anything right away. "Mark will show you the rest", she declares after a moment, hostess-disguise back on again, but Emily can notice a certain anxiety in her voice. "I have to go back to the kitchen."

"Do you need any help?"

Mark is already closer. "Whole place's probably in flames right now."

Spencer turns to him, arching her brows. "Maybe you should call the fire department."

"No", he jokes, his eyes so playful, "I love your burned chicken. And I don't want competition near me, people say those guys are dangerous."

Spencer slaps his back softly. It's actually not his back, it's almost his ass.

"It's duck, Mark." She turns to Emily. "Don't listen to him."

Emily raises her hand in surrender. "I… will do whatever it takes."

Mark nods. "That's the way", he appreciates, turning to Spencer, "because before she eats your burned duck she needs to survive the tour around the apartment with me."

"You'd better make sure she survives it", Spencer warns, also playfully. "Emily, just call me for help if he talks too much."

"I think I can handle him on my own."

The cocky response takes them by surprise, but Mark laughs first, a mischievous chuckle.

"She's got character, Spencer", he applauds, "you never told me that."

"She does", Spencer agrees. "She does."

"I do."

Emily gives them a wink, although internally she is desperate to stay in the kitchen helping Spencer, because she's still that shy person who finds it awkward to make conversation with her friend's husband who is actually still a perfect stranger. But she knows how to do it. And he's easy to talk to; and he's nice, and he seems to like her; he almost seems to be fond of her, although he doesn't really know her; perhaps it's by association with Spencer; perhaps that's what marriage does to people; perhaps she should grow fond of him too, although that one's probably going to take a while. Besides, she's going to be nervous if she stays in the kitchen too. Just because she's generally nervous about this visit.

But she would love to help in the kitchen instead of being shown around by Mark.

If only because… she's here for a reason, she'd better face up to it now.

Mark is already dragging her around, a little boy showing her to his playground, and they leave up the stairs, and the bathroom follows the main bedroom and then comes the guestroom and then they go downstairs again and he shows her first his study and then they walk to Spencer's study. And everything's even more spacious and gasp-robbing than she imagined. And it's probably crazily expensive. Because this is Manhattan.

She didn't call that weekend.

The reasons don't really matter. She had a hangover, her flight was scheduled earlier than she had previously thought, India wanted to spend more time with her in NYC – together, only the two of them, in bed, a hotel, the idea of a romantic escapade feeding her fantasies. Emily usually travels alone. But the point is – she didn't call Spencer, she sent a text excusing herself, and then she kept stealing glances at the phone for five days on a row after receiving Spencer's cold response, wondering why she was feeling guilty anyway. She doesn't think about Spencer often. She leaves it (her) aside. It's different now (she rationalizes) because she actually saw Spencer in flesh and bone, and she does owe her a call or a visit, and why not. She's lazy to do it, though. She's lazy to call because it feels easier to leave it this way (it's been too long), but the phone keeps staring back at her in a really annoying manner, almost as if it were the Spencer she knew, staring, staring, digging a hole. So Emily stares at the phone thinking: what's the point in calling her now, if I'm not even physically in her city anymore and the damage is already done? Because New York has become Spencer's city. It's not any city anymore, or the most stressing, the liveliest, craziest city in the world, like it was before they ran into each other. It's Spencer's city, and Spencer suddenly dominates it, she could appear in every corner, ready to hop into any cab, grabbing the handle, cocky defiance in her eyes, cute chin lifted, scowl in her face, next time, if there's a next time. As a result, Emily looks for Spencer's number again. It is still there. She sets the cell back down on the kitchen counter after checking it continues to exist. Then Hanna writes telling her to call, preferably this year. Hanna is overreacting (they actually talk every two months or so), but it kills her because it feels as if she's talking about Spencer. It's just that Emily is lazy – and busy – and forgetful. But this time is different. She gets tired of this fight the phone is putting up against her, so Emily calls Hanna and then texts Spencer, this time with a heartfelt apology. She says she's really sorry, she will really call the next time. She promises to buy her tons of coffee (she didn't count on dinner). It was still sort of cowardly because it was a text, and Spencer texted back telling her not to worry and asking her to call her on the next trip, no excuses this time or I'll track your hotel down and will wait for you there until you decide to show up, which caused Emily to laugh with a certain relief. It warms her heart and she feels guilty once more; guilty because it's Spencer. The weeks pass, and Emily is busy, and not thinking about Spencer in the back of her mind, her conscience soothed after the texts exchanged, but then, almost three months later, she comes back to New York, winter is approaching and she has a free afternoon and she picks up the phone, hoping for a quick coffee date, true to her word. Instead of a warm giant coffee cup in her hands she is tightly grabbing her purse around the house, and she is here now, in Spencer's office, surrounded by her things, all symptoms of a normal, successful life, but she lost sight of Spencer and instead she gets Mark, who is talking to her while she pretends to listen.

"See?", Mark continues his explanation of the tour, as she hums and nods appreciatively. "You're here."

Yes.

The nerves are boiling down in her stomach. Papers, documents and books lay disarranged on the table. Emily can almost see Spencer's handwriting, if she squints her eyes really hard.

"Yes, I'm here", she confirms, wondering how he could know about her thoughts. "I still can't believe it, it's been so long."

"No", he grins, "I mean you're here… as in this picture."

He points to a frame in one of the bookshelves, and now she sees it. It's a picture of the four of them, taken during senior year, after Maya had died. She wonders why Spencer didn't choose a newer picture, one of college. The nerves are boiling her down and stirring her up.

"We look so young", she muses, because she has to say something to him, although in truth she wants to say I look so sad. "It's amazing."

"You girls looked so cute together."

She smiles. "Yes, we were cute together, we were fun." Sometimes. At least when they weren't in danger.

"I think she misses you."

She turns to him, but doesn't know what to say. "I… Yeah. Me too."

"She's really excited that you came, you know."

She swallows. "I'm excited that I came too." She wishes she could tell her, not him. It doesn't seem right like this.

He examines her closely. His eyes are bright, dark, but also soft. Maybe he doesn't believe her. "So did you know him well?", he finally asks. "That guy, Toby."

So that is why he's watching her. "Toby? Yeah." She doesn't want to think about Toby.

"How was he?"

"Well, I..." How much does he know? "I ended up not knowing him as well as I thought." That had happened a lot more and with more people than she'd ever imagined. "But he was... you know... Why do you ask?" All these years and she hasn't gotten any better at lying or hiding information.

He smiles. "He's the guy who broke her heart, so I'm just curious if you knew him."

"Well... he was sweet", she offers slowly, "until he wasn't."

Will that satisfy him?

"She was completely in love with him, right?"

Emily flutters away the slight annoyance she feels and gives his words some thought. "He broke her heart, but it was... you know, she was young. We all were. It's just..." She doesn't even know how to put it. She just wants the story to sound normal. Like anything that could happen to anyone. "She was in love. It was her first serious relationship. In a way."

"You don't like him either, do you?"

"Me?" She directs her eyes to the bookshelf and distracts herself with a heavy copy of a treaty on philosophy of law. "I did, he was a very good friend of mine."

"But he's not anymore."

"No."

"It does happen to a lot of friends", he answers thoughtfully. "So you took her side?"

"Yes."

It's easier to explain it this way. It sounds almost normal.

"I get it", he smiles back. "You're hard to crack and I still have to improve my Stasi interrogation skills."

Stasi. He is a nerd. What a surprise.

"I thought you were also a lawyer."

"A defence lawyer", he corrects. "A very good and committed one at that, so call me if you ever need me."

She lifts her eyes up to his. "I hope not."

"But I'm a good one, I swear."

He's back to his goofy demeanour.

"I have to check with Spencer to make sure of that", she jokes too, because at least now he's not pushing her about Toby. "No offense."

"Ouch, and Spencer said you were the nice one."

"I might've changed."

She smiles. It's sweet and it's enough to make him grin back and stop talking. She likes his easy-going ways. She doesn't like it when he gets pushy about Toby, though.

"Let's go eat that turkey."

"Wasn't it duck?", she teases. "Or was it chicken?"

"I think she just likes to pretend that she's cooking, but she probably called take-out."

They come out of the study and the smell of food is more intense. Mark praises the food, whispers into her ear not to listen to him, Spencer is actually a very decent cook, and they sit to eat, duck is delicious, rice too, wine pops out and pours in, and she listens to stories. She learns Mark is a defence lawyer who works a lot of pro-bono cases. She learns he met Spencer in court and had to ask her out five times until she said yes, she kept rejecting him because he was a lawyer and because he defended drug dealers and petty thieves and pimps. She learns the exotic African figures are his, he's travelled around the world a lot when he was younger (he's twenty-nine, two years older than Spencer), and that the Venetian mask is a gift Aria sent for their wedding. She learns they're in love. It shows in the way they talk to each other, so she sits and learns with calm curiosity, catches some glimpses of Spencer's glow, it looks good on her, she looks mature, not so restless as before, but they also want to know about her, so she tells them she's back to college, studying again, wants to change jobs but has to keep working as a sales executive; they ask what she's studying (Spencer widens her eyes), she replies with the truth. She doesn't explain why or what she expects from college, she just says she's grown to dislike her job (although she actually hates it). Three and a half glasses of wine later, Emily's cheeks are burning when she sits down on the couch, crossing her legs and clasping her hands while she wonders what now, is it time to go? Apparently it is for someone and there is a hug goodbye because Mark is going upstairs to leave them talk alone, and Emily wonders what now, what now, should she go too after a while, should she tell Spencer he asked about Toby, is it even important anymore? Spencer sits down by her side, takes off her flats and bends one leg under the other. They keep silent for a minute or two, and out of the corner of her eye Emily is aware of Spencer's cheeks burning from the alcohol too, and of her breath, that is quiet and regular, inhaling slowly the still, relaxed air of the evening.

"I'm so glad that you're here", Spencer says again, hours after the first time. "But it feels weird."

Now Emily can also say it. "I'm glad too." She doesn't bother denying the weirdness.

"Wine was good."

"Money well spent."

Spencer smiles a half smile. "Hope so." She stares questioningly. "So you like New York?"

"Yeah." Emily returns the stare. "Well, sometimes it scares me a little."

"Sometimes it scares me a little too", Spencer agrees, lowering her voice. "It has good clubs, though."

Emily knows Spencer wants to investigate further into her party life and probably into her relationship with India and probably into other things too.

"It does."

"Wanna see my favourite place in New York?"

Emily frowns and pouts at the same time. "Sure", she offers. "Next time?"

"I'm not going to wait until the next time, Fields." There's a devilish twinkle in her brown eyes. "Maybe there won't be a next time, as we know."

Emily groans, although she deserves the harsh joke. "Fields?"

"Fields", Spencer repeats. "I'm afraid to say my favourite place is not a club, sorry."

"I think I can survive that."

"Wait for me here."

Suddenly it sounds like an adventure.

"Are you gonna bring a flashlight?"

Spencer doesn't answer, but Emily can see the smirk as she turns around and disappears behind a door. Going out in the night is not something she looks forward to, so she thinks about a possible excuse not to, but doesn't come up with any good one besides the whiny reticence to catch a cold and the need to be back at her hotel to get some rest for tomorrow.

Spencer throws a blanket in her direction.

"What's this?"

"A blanket."

Emily rolls her eyes, but Spencer is already dragging her arm to pull her up.

They end up in the balcony.

It's frostier and windier now, and Emily wraps herself tightly in the blanket. Spencer does too as she walks closer to the stone edge to look out, thin vapour coming out of her mouth.

"So this is your favourite place?"

"It's in the middle of the city", Spencer explains, her back turned, "but I'm alone here, and it's my house, my place, so I get the best of two worlds, and I feel like I'm floating in the air." She looks back to where Emily's standing, a few feet behind. "Come see."

Emily's fingers grab the stone as she takes a peek out. The buildings shoot down to the distant colourful street. She feels immediately dizzy. The wind messes their hair.

"I'm not a big fan of New York heights."

Spencer gently gets a hold of her elbow. "You afraid?"

This city is too vertical.

"Dizzy." She doesn't want to look down, so she tries looking up to taller buildings and the fragment of a night sky. "I always feel like I'm gonna fall in NYC", she comments, "even when I'm just walking down the street."

"What about when you're dancing in a club?"

Emily stares back, her lips parted. "You know you can ask directly."

"I think that one's pretty direct."

"But I can still ignore it."

Spencer lets out a laugh. "Okay", she accepts. "So… India… Tell me about her."

A flock of hair gets in her mouth and Emily tries to dominate it behind her ear. Spencer's hair is blowing too, but the wind hits her in the face, and she looks cold.

"Her parents were touring with Alanis Morissette when they got pregnant and that explains the name."

"I didn't say anything."

"You didn't need to."

Spencer smirks. "So why not Canada?"

"Huh?"

"Isn't Alanis Morissette from Canada?"

"Funny", Emily scowls. "There's a song called Thank you and it's about…"

"I know", Spencer cuts her off, grinning wildly. "So… you go to parties with thank-you-India."

"India is twenty", Emily says as an explanation, "so we go out a lot, it's nothing."

Spencer looks surprised. "Wow, twenty."

"She's studying too."

"Psychology too?"

"English."

Spencer moves to lean back on the stone balcony, then shakes her head, thinking. Her hair gets in her face now as well, and Emily contemplates its dance around rosy pale skin. She's wearing it straight tonight, no curls or waves. But the dance is weaving it, maddening it, and waves are starting to make a comeback out of the pure spontaneity of nature.

"What happened to K.C.?", Spencer asks. "You didn't say."

"We broke up."

It's Spencer's turn to roll her eyes, but she doesn't, she just fixes her with a sardonic glare.

"Sorry about that."

"It was a while ago."

"And India…", Spencer starts again, the little smirk there. "She seems nice."

Emily can't help to grin because India was not exactly acting nice the night they met. "Really?"

"Yeah", Spencer lies. "But she's young."

"It's not such a big difference."

"You should've brought her tonight."

"We're not that serious."

Emily is sure this is only helping to increase Spencer's deathly curiosity. "You're not?"

"We're keeping it simple."

"On your terms or on hers?"

"Does that really matter?"

"It usually does."

Emily looks away at the tallest building in sight. The moon is scarcely there, a plaster of silver light hiding in the sky. "She's twenty so it's easier that way."

Spencer nods in understanding. "So it's your terms."

"So it's my terms", Emily repeats, not bothering to discuss it. "But she's okay with it."

"I'm sure, baby."

"Are you having fun?"

Spencer smiles widely (it's cute), and she looks younger when she does, and her eyes laugh too. She doesn't say anything, though. A siren blows so far away it comes from another world down on the earth, making the air remotely frizzle and vibrate.

They listen to the sound of the city under them.

They're floating, but they're in the middle of it.

"What are your plans after you get your degree?", Spencer asks after a while. "What are you going to do?"

"Child psychology", Emily answers. "I want to set up a therapy center with a friend."

Spencer's eyes try to excavate into her face now, looking for meanings. "Child therapy?"

Emily indicates yes with a slight shake of the head.

"I always knew you'd end up helping people", Spencer thinks aloud. "It makes sense they're gonna be kids."

Of course Spencer understands. Emily's heart fills with warmth, because it took a lot to make the decision of changing careers and going back to study at twenty-six. Most people don't get it, and Emily doesn't want most people to get it either.

"How about you?"

"How about me?"

Emily thinks about how to ask. "Are you happy?" She immediately decides to rephrase. "I mean, with your job. You look happy."

"I am", Spencer confirms. "Life's smiling to me and I'm smiling back."

The words make Emily smile too. "That's good."

"Yeah", Spencer shoots her a glance, "but I'm cold now, let's sit there."

"Where?"

Spencer's already sitting on the ground, leaning against the glass door, and Emily lets her body slowly slide down until both of them are sitting side by side, their legs, both long, ones covered in black and the others in red-purplish skinny jeans, touching as they stretch out on the cold. Spencer has her flats on and Emily is wearing black short heels, and their shoes seem to greet each other patiently until Spencer pulls the blanket she's holding over them.

"How's your mom?"

"She's doing a lot better."

They gaze at the skyline, protected now from the wind.

"I'm sorry I missed your wedding." Emily finally says what needs to be said. "I hope it's not too late to say it."

Spencer moves to face her, her neck creaking a little in the process. "You already said it", she answers. "It's fine."

"Were you pissed?"

"Was I pissed?", Spencer pronounces slowly, rhetorically, but not harshly. "At you?"

"Who else?"

Spencer takes a moment to respond. "You know you can't really piss me off, Emily."

Tears well up at the back of Emily's eyes. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For that, I guess."

"For not getting pissed?"

"Yeah."

Spencer's hand finds Emily's hand under the blanket. "You're welcome." It's a nice sensation. Tendons slightly flex under the skin when Emily blindly touches them.

"I like Mark."

It's almost the truth.

"You do?"

"He's funny."

"He talks a lot."

"He does, but he's funny."

"He talks more than me, can you believe it?" Spencer is excited. "But, you know, he's… he's brilliant and he's not afraid to show he's brilliant and silly in front of me, and he's… you know, he's got great runner legs, which I happen to really appreciate in a man."

"We all know that's so important", Emily teases. "That's a good reason to marry someone."

"Not to mention his curls."

"Spencer, I'm gay."

Spencer laughs out loud. "What, you don't like his curls? Are you human?"

"I like them", Emily accepts, "I guess I just wouldn't marry them."

"And what would you marry?", Spencer teases back. "Maybe I can give India a tip or two."

Emily looks away. "I still have to find what I'd marry, I guess."

"You'll find it. Maybe tomorrow in New York."

"Or maybe I already found it and it's already gone." She doesn't want to say that. It sounds childish. But it's already out. "Or maybe I just don't really care about getting married now, because first I want to get to be a child therapist… and then… we'll see."

"If you'd found it you would know", Spencer concludes half-seriously. "And anyway you can find the same thing in many people, in terms of… you know, properties you like."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

"Is that a theory of yours?"

Spencer's brain seems to get to work. "No, not a theory. Just a general… observation about people's qualities."

Emily chuckles. "I see."

"What?"

"Nothing, I was wondering if you'd like anyone with short curls and runner legs."

Spencer grins too. "Probably." She thinks about it. "Actually I do. Other things too."

"Yeah, anyway I'm not… you know, I'm not looking right now."

Spencer grows more serious again. "Yeah, you told me." Her eyes examine her curiously again, weighing the next words. "So you like him? Mark, I mean." Spencer finally decides on returning to Mark instead of trying to pry into her love life more.

Bending her knees, Emily leans forward to embrace her legs, letting go of Spencer's hand. "I do." She turns to look back. "He makes you happy. I can see you're sort of glowing."

"Glowing?" A lop sided smile emphasizes the repeated question. "You sure? Cause I don't think I'm pregnant yet."

"Yet."

"Imagine when I am."

It's difficult to imagine it, but after tonight Emily is closer to being able to do it. Despite the certainty that it's going to happen, her pulse races, startled.

Silence wins, a silence that resembles an old familiarity.

"He asked me about Toby, you know", Emily finally decides to say, because they're friends, they're always be friends "Does he know…?"

"About Toby?"

Spencer has widened her eyes and opened her mouth in surprise.

"Yeah, he wanted to know how he was, how he broke your heart, and what I knew about him."

A shadow covers Spencer's face. "He's... he wants to know a lot of things."

"He doesn't know?"

"Just the basics."

"But…"

"He knows the basics of it… just the most important things."

Emily accepts it. "Yeah."

"He asks about you too."

Emily feels a blush coming. Twenty-seven years old and it's still hard to fight a blush sometimes. "About me?"

"He just wants to know everything about my life." Spencer's words calm Emily down. "And he thinks you're the hottest woman he's ever seen, by the way. He can hardly shut up about it."

Emily smirks despite herself. "The hottest woman?"

"It's not like I can blame him."

Now she does blush. Fortunately the dark covers the tracks.

"How much does he know?"

"About?"

"Everything."

Spencer frowns, worry lines marking the spaces around her eyes. "The basics." She repeats the basics as if Emily is going to understand what the basics are. But then she seems to think further into it. "I don't want him to freak out, that's why I haven't told him all."

"Why do you think he'll freak out?"

"Cause I'd freak out if I were him", Spencer explains, her hands out of the blanket to move freely in the explanation. "And because... It's already different with the whole idea of people who got murdered and the police investigation. It's a complicated story and he knows that and a couple things more. And he knows general things about Toby. The basics."

General things about Toby.

That he was doomed because of them. That he lied to them. That they all lied to everybody. That he beat Spencer at Scrabble. That he beat her at the most important game.

General things about Mark. But she doesn't really know Mark.

"He doesn't strike me as the type of guy who'll freak out, Spence."

"I don't want him to feel sorry or… or, you know, to judge anything, or to get too intrigued, or..."

"But he's already intrigued about Toby."

Spencer shoots her a look saying that she's right. "Fine, but I just don't want him to know. I don't want him to talk about it, to laugh about it or to be serious about it. Is that so bad?"

"No, it's not bad, but…"

Emily doesn't have time to respond before Spencer continues rambling.

"Don't you feel like this is always going to be with us no matter what we do or where we go? Like it's inside us and it's ours and we can't really share it."

Feeling that is what made Emily decide to go back to college. So yes.

"Like it's a secret", Emily sums up. "Yeah."

"It's more than that", Spencer ponders. "It defines us."

"Do you think we have some form of PTSD?"

"I don't know, you tell me", Spencer concludes, biting her lips, then taking a deep breath. "I never talk about this anymore."

"Me either."

"I sleep at night", Spencer proudly states. "I like New York because it feels big enough, it feels like survival and life, you know, like it's always gonna be there no matter what, and that's how I feel too. Or how I wanna feel anyway."

Emily shoots a concerned glance. "You don't feel like that?"

"I do, most of the time, and when I don't I have this." She points at the balcony, and Emily guesses this is where Spencer comes on the nights she can't sleep.

"But that's not the problem."

"The problem is us."

"It doesn't have to be."

"It shouldn't be but it is."

"But you married Mark", Emily argues. "Isn't that a good reason to let it all out?"

Spencer closes her mouth and blinks, Emily counts the times. Three times.

"It should be."

"But you're not doing it."

"Life is not about should or shouldn't, Em", Spencer keeps fighting. "It's about what happens and what doesn't happen, and whether you're caught in the middle or not."

Happenstance.

"And we're always caught in the middle of everything."

"Not anymore."

"Yeah", Emily agrees, "not anymore."

However, that doesn't change the fact that Spencer got married to Mark, which should be a good reason to inform him of all her past. But this is Emily, Emily thinks, this is Emily trapped in the everlasting dilemma of her mind: should or shouldn't.

Spencer bends her knees too, mimicking Emily's posture. "Did you ever tell anyone?"

"The whole thing?" Emily shakes her head. "No."

Spencer rests her chin on her hand, then softly bites one of her fingers. "Is that why you broke up with K. C.?"

"How do you know I was the one who broke up?"

"Hanna told me."

Of course.

Emily narrows her eyes. "Do you usually talk to Hanna about me?"

"I try not to", Spencer replies quickly, all fiery eyes. "I'd prefer to get the news fresh from you, but it's taken me more than three years to get you to talk to me normally."

Emily wonders if this conversation is normal. Yes, in some ways, it is. For them. It's like they're teenagers again, like they're floating – floating – in a special age-less bubble which allows them the privilege of being wise and stupid at the same time.

"Sometimes I ask Hanna about you too."

"You do?"

"Yeah", Emily confesses. "She sent me some pictures of the wedding."

Spencer falls silent. After a while, Emily checks her watch, realizes her wine-induced fuzz is starting to fade away, that it's time to call a cab and go back to the hotel. Tomorrow arrives.

A crude light crashes against her face and she crosses her arm over her eyes.

"What are you doing, Spencer?"

She doesn't see her, but she hears her. "I brought a flashlight like you asked."

"Well, can you put it down?"

"Not until you confess."

"To what?"

"Anything."

But Spencer lowers the lantern soon, leaving it to rest between the seams.

"Em."

The shortened name. It provides the same sense of familiarity and a weird certainty Emily has almost forgotten in her life. Familiarity and certainty are not in the name, though, they are in the person saying it to the other end. The certainty that she's here, that they're friends, that they know what it is to survive a friendship like this one, always on the edge of letting it die. Emily tried to let it die.

"Yeah?"

"Why did you call this time?"

Emily wishes she could say it – a simple, simple phrase. "I owed you a call, right?"

"You owed me a call for years."

"We're friends."

"Are we?"

Truth or dare is not a game right now. It's never a game with Spencer.

"Of course we are."

Spencer's not the person to buy an unlikely of course. "I didn't think you were going to call." She demands more. She always demands more – of her, of everything, until it makes sense.

"I didn't think you were going to answer the call."

Her eyes widen. "Bullshit."

Emily chuckles. "Take it as my own child-therapy."

"Ha", Spencer drily replies to Emily's laugh. "So I'm just a tool in your path to reconciling with the past, huh?"

"You should study to be the therapist."

"I'd be the worst therapist, I'd just tell you to get your shit together."

"And you'd be right."

"So get your shit together", Spencer orders, but her tone is soft and she sounds sufficiently pleased. "Can I gather from this conversation that you're gonna call again?"

"I'll call again."

"Because we're friends."

"Because we're friends."

That is the reason behind all. Because they're friends. Because they will always be friends even when they don't want to be, whether they like it or not. Because this friendship defines them and it doesn't stand on pure will alone, like most friendships, it sometimes feels like a trap and it is a problem, it will always be their problem, which they'll never be able to talk about and clarify easily: a simple phrase, a clear-cut explanation about their life is denied to them, the slow, easy touch of the sun on the skin (California) is denied to them, but the reassurance of being able to hold on to each other in the middle of the night, in the middle of everything, has been given to them, has not been denied to them, and it can't die. Not everyone has that; some people get the pleasure of saying hello and goodbye as they please, when they decide on it, or when someone else decides on it; only a few get the pleasure of a real lifetime, unbreakable bond; Emily Fields is one of these.

She thinks about it on the plane that takes her home the next evening.

Only a few.

Only four.

Only two.

Goodbye, New York. Till the next time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from "Reunion", song by The xx.


	4. Animals

"You look great, Em", he says admiringly, "you really do."

She forces a half smile, her heart pouring out of her eyes. They've had this plan to meet each other for coffee since she came back from Haiti a few days ago. It's not coffee, it's tea.

"And you look happy."

She's never seen him looking so good. He even looks like your dream-like kind of rebel, even if she's never dreamt of one. Not of a boy, anyway. He doesn't look like a stray cat anymore, the guy you didn't want to meet in the boardwalk, the guy you crossed the streets for, not to bump into him, the guy she picked up with her gentle hands to show him to the beauty dance, feigning kindness when all she was doing was avoid Maya. Yes, that was her, the coward. And this is him, and there's nothing left of the boy she tried to rescue except the deep transparency of his gaze. But his blondish hair is spiky with character and sun now, and she blames it on Spencer and on love. Love gives spike and character and the sun to revolve around. Love makes handsome, built-up rebels of damp, stray cats abandoned in the storm.

"I am", he agrees, shrugging his shoulders somewhat shyly. "It shows, huh?"

"It does."

"Summer's been good to me."

She perceives the sun-kissed skin, but then there's Spencer and there's happiness and he's talking about that. "So I heard."

"Spencer told you?"

"Yesterday", she quickly adds, "at the lake house." That is the lie they all agreed on, and so she lies to him once again. "How's the loft coming out?"

"I love living on my own."

Living on her own seems like a dream to her, a grown-up dream. Is he a grown-up already? Somehow she is convinced if she were to live alone now she would be forgotten and dead. She would be ancient. Her skin would fall crumpled and rotten to the ground. She would be a mummy. She would walk around labyrinths made of stone in a pyramid like she read once, and her spirit would haunt people… but whom? She prefers to stay in limbo.

"You're lucky", she responds just to say something, no matter what Hanna's opinion on the matter is. He doesn't look ancient. He looks blessed. "Spencer's said you go every day to her house to get a shower."

He smiles a little mischievously. Only a little, but it's there. "I'm still fixing the pipes."

"Spencer said."

Spencer said so many things.

"So how did your girls' night out go?"

"Easy", she lies, and guilt takes over because if there was a thing it wasn't, it was easy, and basically she doesn't remember much of it. "It was a girls' night  _in_ , so we just talked about what we did during the summer and about how this year's gonna be for us."

That's what they agreed they would tell everybody, and so she just repeats it, repeats Spencer's words one by one like the good automaton she is when she's not drunk.

"And how was your summer?"

"My mom says I made a difference." She can't avoid a certain bitterness directed at her mother. "Apparently the world is a better place now because of me."

"The world has always been a better place because of you, Em."

She doesn't deserve his true kindness. Especially not today. So she looks away, blinking away sorrow and the trouble she causes in the world.

"How's Jenna?"

Emily asks the question to buy time, and as a result the blue in Toby's eyes hardens.

"I haven't really talked to her since she left town", he answers slowly before the blue softens again, turning a misty shade of concerned. His voice is mellow and manly, and she guesses this is where straight crushes go for gay people (she does remember that part of the night), to this place of sorrow and guilt anyway. This is where all crushes go for her: either to a wasteland or to a grave. Toby, thus, belongs to a wasteland. "Emily, are you okay?"

Her lower lip quivers. "Sorry, I spaced out."

"No, I mean if you're okay", he asks again, "you look like you're gonna cry."

And wouldn't that be an inconvenience for everybody –  _again_?

No, she's not going to cry. She's done crying until the bastard who killed Maya gets a life sentence or worse. So she looks up to Toby, and at first she thinks it is defying but then she realizes it's just pathetic. She is the damp, stray cat abandoned in the storm and he can always  _see_  her, he was the one who came to the rescue when she needed someone, he was the one who told her it was okay to be herself before anyone else did. He knows everything. He is the wisest person around, the one who can teach everyone a lesson, including her.

"Toby", she calls, wishing for a lesson learnt from him. "I don't think I'm okay."

"Is it Alison?" He seems to have been thinking about the newest detail of the never-ending story of their life: the profanation of Alison's grave yesterday night, followed by the disappearance of the corpse. "It's all over the news."

Her eyes fill with more tears because they will always be news. Reporters are still camping out of her house. They want to know about Maya. They want to know about Alison, about Garrett and Mona, about them, about  _her_. "I think it's…"

"What kind of sick person would do something like that?"

She hopes it wasn't her. She really hopes she's not that sick. She thinks she's not, because not even in a million years, not even with how messed up and angry she's been after Maya's death, not even with  _that_  can she imagine herself digging up Alison's grave. Because why would she do that? She loved Alison. She loved Maya. Now they're dead. Was she going to dig up Maya's grave too after Alison's? To do what? Line them up (corpses, she thinks, and she's never seen one, and she doesn't want to see them because they're  _dead_ ) to sing them a lullaby and promise them a forever kind of love, eternal love, after-death love: love, the only kind of love she knows. Love, because she couldn't save them. Love, but not safety. Love she could give, love she  _learned_ to give, thanks to Maya. Safety was what she could not give, not to Maya, who wasn't even… she didn't even know what was going on, she wasn't even aware of what was happening in this town, and Emily should have told her, should have said get the fuck out of here before it gets to you because you are with me and you are living in that house which seems to be haunted and this whole place is evil and I don't know why and I can't offer any explanation,  _not even Spencer can_ , so let me lie to you to keep you safe. Alison she couldn't save, but Maya… Maya was innocent. She could have just told her to leave instead of insisting she stayed. She could have kept her safe like Spencer did for Toby; like she did for Toby too when she helped Spencer break up with him. Now Toby is here, Toby is alive because Spencer is strong and Emily could also be strong for Spencer; but Maya is not here, Maya is not alive, and she hates herself for it because she was weak, she is still weak, and nobody told her Maya was in danger. So why would she go to Alison's grave? What kind of sick person would do something like that, what kind of sick person would get wasted like that, what kind of person would kiss a friend and would then sit in front of another friend to drink tea while the same old lies come out of her mouth? But she can't cry anymore, so she blinks once, twice – many times, so many times Toby sets his tea down on the table and covers her hand with his. It feels warm – a big hand.

"Hey, Em", he calls softly, "it's fine, I understand."

"No, you don't, you…"

"Whatever it is, you can tell me."

The blink-away works under the weight of his hand.

"There's something I need to talk to you about, Toby."

He reclines in his seat, glancing over up to the waitress and the other tables, making sure they're alone.

"I'm listening."

She tries to read what's in his eyes, if he's weary, tired of her, disappointed at her (but he will, he is going to be). She only reads the oceanic blue of compassion. Compassion she gets today, every day, not a lesson and not a punishment for her sins.

"I've done something really stupid."

His eyes narrow and his body moves in his seat, expectantly.

"What's wrong, Em?"

"I spent half the summer partying way too much", she starts, bordering on a confession, "cause I've just been so… angry, and…"

"Em, that's understandable", he nods repeatedly. "I can't imagine losing someone like that."

"I've been doing some pretty stupid things, Toby."

"You're going through something that no one can even start to understand so, whatever it is, I can imagine it's not that stupid." He squeezes her hand. "And knowing you, it's probably not that bad."

It's bad.

"I've been worried about, you know, how much I've been able to actually  _drink_  lately and…"

His eyes widen a little. "How much is that?"

"As much as to do really stupid things."

"Em", he warns, because she's not really saying anything. "It's…"

"I was at this one party one time", she tries to explain, "and I got so wasted I don't even remember what I did." But she remembers parts, the first part of the night before she fell onto Spencer's bed like a zombie, she remembers parts she wishes she'd forgotten too. She remembers she tried to kiss Spencer out of pure despair and Spencer kissed her back.

"You don't remember anything?"

"Some things", she admits reluctantly, and she knows she's on the verge of giving it away, "but then there's nothing, it's all a huge blackout."

"Okay, so…"

He doesn't know what to do with that. No one does.

"I'm letting everybody down, Toby."

"No", he shakes his head. "Who's everybody?"

"My friends", Emily explains, "everybody." Toby too. Maya too. Maybe even Alison.

"You know how Spencer and the girls feel about you…"

"They don't need to put up with me."

"They don't need to", he agrees, "but they  _want_  to, cause that's what friends do, theyaccept you for who you are."

And who is that?

And how can they accept her if she doesn't?

Her iced tea cools her hands as she wraps them around the cup. She feels like she's having a fever. She feels like burning up.

"I'm a mess now."

"You're gonna get better."

"That's what Spencer says."

Spencer says so many things.

"And Spencer's always right."

She smiles a little. "Always?"

"Okay, not always", he chuckles a little devilishly, "but she's always right about you."

"How's that?"

No, she shouldn't ask him about Spencer.

Anything he can say she knows already.

He hesitates, taking a sip from his tea. "Spencer's stubborn", he ponders. "She's gonna make sure you get better, and you know how she is when she gets down to business like that."

Emily smiles again, but in truth she doesn't want Spencer to make sure of anything. It's her fault Spencer's in a bigger mess now, and Hanna and Aria… they're all lying to the police again, and Garrett Reynold's trial hasn't even started. If she could throw away the flask, if she could turn back the clock and go back to the Hastings' barn, she would in a heartbeat. If she could not go to the bathroom to puke or if she could not talk about girl crushes and if she could just shut down and not let any of the romance and any of the big life her friends are living get in the way of her pain, maybe she wouldn't have kissed Spencer or maybe Spencer wouldn't have tried to comfort her with an awkward semi-kiss first, and then she wouldn't have gone out and ended up next to Alison's grave (Spencer says it's a set-up). But now Spencer's in trouble because of her. It's not only the grave. That is bad enough, yes, but then there's the kiss, and  _this_  she remembers. She remembers the kiss and then she remembers Spencer walking to the Hastings from the cemetery with her, basically helping her to put one foot in front of the other, and then she remembers Spencer telling her to undress so they could get rid of her clothes which were  _evidence_  of a new crime; she remembers Spencer's interrogative sideways glances while she undressed, she remembers the chimney and the feeling that things were getting complicated again for all her friends as the alcohol started to wear off, she remembers realizing Spencer wanted to ask her how much of the night she had forgotten but never getting to pronounce the words because Emily wouldn't even look her in the eye. They just watched everything burn to ashes, and then they left for the Hastings' lake house with Hanna and Aria, and Spencer prepared the alibi to save her ass, their life is a secret, and it's only her fault this time. So she smiles, because Spencer's stubborn like Toby says, but that is the problem and she wishes she could make the problem go away; she smiles but she would like to scream; and then she takes a sip of her tea too and watches Sophie, the barista, move around the café, because watching Sophie is harmless and can do no wrong.

They talk about little things and finally they hug before she goes home. He doesn't embrace her tightly like Spencer would, he just squeezes her shoulder, offering discreet strength, passing some of his old-time sacrifice on to her. She is the cat, he is the gentle hand.

He is her friend, after all that happened between them and what she put him through.

"Toby", she calls before he goes away. "Wait."

"Yeah?"

She wants to apologize, but instead she says thank you. "Thanks for being my friend today." Thank you feels more appropriate now.

His smile is wide. "Thank  _you_ ", he says, "cause you're my friend today too."

She likes the sound of it and for a moment she can pretend she's not a mess and she didn't try to kiss Spencer. "We're not saying we're sorry anymore." There was a time, at the beginning, when all they said to each other was that they were sorry about this or that. It was never enough, though. He went to juvenile detention for something he hadn't done.

He catches on to the meaning. "No, now we're saying thanks", he smiles wider. "You were the first one who ever gave me a chance, Em."

"You were the first one who ever told me it was okay to be me", she says back. "The true me, not the other person I wanted to be."

"I've always liked the true you better, Emily."

"Even now?"

"Even now."

They say goodbye.

In her room, Emily lies down on her bed, counts how many twinkles the blue fish hanging down the ceiling creates when it reflects the light of the sun that goes through the blinds.

So far it's been one hundred and fifty four.

Blue fish reminds her of Maya.

Blue fish, a sign after a meeting, cardboards, a room full of painted blue water, any object hanging down a ceiling, twinkles shining, colors.

Fifty five.

It's a dream catcher. She wonders how many dreams it's catching: one hundred and fifty  _six_. She wonders if that's the number of dreams she's been having about Maya since she came back to Rosewood. Maya in the pool. Maya in a grave. Maya in the distance, smiling. Maya smoking, a bad girl, a bad girl asking a decent girl for support before she runs away to her death. Emily, the decent girl with an overload of dirty secrets, too much baggage for anyone to hold, she should have just said goodbye, told her to stay away from her. Maya coming back home, it's all been a mistake, they got it wrong, it wasn't her body in the bag, Emily is crying. She never got to see Maya's body. It allows her to keep dreaming about a comeback.

There's a knock on the door, and she tells her mom to come in. Fifty seven. Fifty eight.

"Hey."

The rasp coming in is not her mom's. She can recognize it anywhere. It's Spencer. It's the kiss.

Emily sits up instantly.

"Spencer."

Closing the door carefully, Spencer comes to sit on the edge of the bed.

"How are you?" As much care as was deployed to close the door is used to ask the question with little to no effect, because even when she's careful Spencer comes across rather direct. "You didn't come for registration day."

"I had other things to do." The truth is she kept looking at her friends from the outside, waiting until they were gone to do it herself. "How did it go?"

"When are you gonna do it?" Spencer's eyes grow bigger with the fear of an academic year going to waste. "I can do it for you if you need me to."

"I already did it."

Now Spencer looks slightly hurt, her face falls. "Oh, okay then." Her satchel falls too from her shoulder and she leaves it to rest on the floor. "That's good."

Emily nods, tries to smile. "I'm not going to leave school, Spencer."

"Yeah, I know."

"On to making it to senior year."

Spencer ignores the slightly bitter tone and switches on her intense interrogative type of gaze. "So have you managed to remember anything else about yesterday night?"

"No."

"Nothing?"

"No."

"Everything's still blurry."

"It's not even blurry, Spencer, it's just not there."

Spencer shakes her head, her lower lip pouts out, she's thinking. "Okay."

"I do remember what we have to say."

"Yep."

"Like a mantra."

"It's better if you don't repeat it like a mantra", Spencer warns, "I mean, it has to sound natural."

Emily rolls her eyes. "So… is that what you wanted to know?"

Spencer sits more comfortably on the bed, her legs pressed together because she's wearing a really tight, short beige skirt. "How're you holding up with the hangover?"

"I feel like I have a fever."

"Does your mom know?"

"Of course not."

Spencer extends her arm, struggling with her skirt to get closer to Emily on the bed, but Emily backs away.

"I just wanna know if you, like,  _really_  have a fever, Em. I don't  _bite_."

"Let me make it easier for you", Emily does bite from her place next to the headboard. "I don't have a fever."

"You just said you…"

Emily lets out a frustrated grunt, cutting Spencer off. "Stop doing that, Spencer, I'm  _fine_." All this extra care is making her nervous and stupid also because she feels she actually needs it like Toby's gentle hand and Spencer's tender touch on her face. It's just wrong.

Spencer scowls, thin brows sketching elegant arrow-lines that start a contest to oppose each other, see which one beats the other and gets the prize of angriest-yet-classiest eyebrow. "What is the problem with you?" The low voice feels like it's shouting. "You were out in the cold just a few hours ago and I'm just trying to check out your body temperature."

"It's  _September_."

"So what?"

"So it couldn't be that cold."

"You just said you felt like you had a fever."

"Are we gonna keep arguing about this?"

"That depends." Spencer is stubborn. Spencer is strong. "Are you gonna let me touch you?"

Emily scowls too, her frown born out of frustration, but she uses her feet to roll over to the edge of the bed, where she offers her forehead to Spencer. "Happy now?"

"So happy I can finally lay a hand on you", Spencer muses, rolling her eyes in exasperation while her cold fingers pose on Emily's forehead, humming birds on a burnt out plank. "You're kinda warm, you know." She gives her a mocking look. "As well as hot and irresistible."

"Shut up."

"No, seriously", Spencer says, a little smirk dawning on her face, "you're warmer than you should be… meaning it in strictly medical terms."

"I'm fine." Emily pulls back and lets her legs fall from the bed too. "Really." Spencer looks at her disbelievingly. "Trust me."

"Trust you."

"Yeah, trust me."

Spencer stands up, a two-legged spider who paces the room. "Are we gonna talk about this or not? You know, the big unicorn in the room."

"What unicorn are you talking about?"

"The elephant."

"Can you stop talking about animals?"

"You're not really thinking I'm gonna buy the dumb act after you almost threw yourself out of the window so I wouldn't touch you, are you?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

Brows arching and lips pouting fire the sound out. "Sure."

"I talked to Toby today."

Now, this is a hit, this is a punch, this is what they call a blow to the head and Spencer is a body that crumbles and stumbles back and forth right before falling down and biting dust.

Her eyes turn accusing and her voice turns panicky. "What did you do, Emily?"

"I was gonna meet him anyway, so please don't panic."

"What did you  _say_  to him?"

"Just don't worry", Emily tries to calm Spencer down. "I didn't say  _anything_."

"Are you sure?"

"I only said I'm drinking too much."

Spencer seems relieved. "You shouldn't even say that."

"He  _is_  my friend, Spencer."

"So just go there and  _kiss_  him, all right?", Spencer shouts back in another whisper, and Emily realizes it's not her voice that is shouting, it's her eyes, they're always like that, except when she's sleepy or downright snoring; they're like that even when she's drunk. "I mean, what is going on with you? Why can't you talk to me like a normal human being? Why can't we just talk this over?"

It's time to wrestle the elephant.

"Because we  _kissed_  and then I ended up digging up a grave, okay?"

"Shhhhh", Spencer orders silence. "You didn't do that, it was a  _set-up_ , Emily."

"But I did  _something_  I can't even remember and now we're all screwed."

Spencer doesn't deny it. "We're gonna fix it."

"I'm sorry, Spencer", Emily begs, standing up too to follow Spencer around the room. But the room is not big and they both end up next to the bench underneath the window. "I'm really sorry I did that to you guys."

"You're sorry but you're saying it's my fault and it happened because I kissed you."

"I'm not saying it's your fault."

Spencer stops. She seems really tense too. She's probably feeling guilty. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I… I don't know… I wish it hadn't happened, that's all I'm saying."

Folding her arms, crossing her legs, the pure image of frustration and defence (accusing brows and a pout), Spencer sits down on the bench. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have given you the freaking flask and none of this would've happened."

"It's not your fault, I was asking for the freaking flask all the time."

"Yeah, so you could forget about the kiss which you  _obviously_  still remember", Spencer spits out. "That was just  _so_  clever."

Emily sits next to her. "It's really stupid."

" _We're_  really stupid."

"But it's not your fault."

Spencer turns to her. "So if it's not my fault why do you look like you're still scared of me?"

It's a valid question.

"I'm not scared of you", Emily tries to say, "I'm just… it's not… I…"

"Shit, Emily, look at you", Spencer exclaims. "You  _are_  scared of me."

"I'm just trying to get used to the idea."

"You're supposed to only get scared of me because of my grades and… the words I use and… you're not Hanna so it's not like you  _actually_  get scared of it so…."

"I'm not scared of you."

"You don't have to get used to  _any_  idea because it didn't happen."

"It didn't?"

Spencer blinks, thin eyes, eyeliner, brown. No, hazel, under the light. It's sort of hazel, but it turns dark again. "Okay, yeah, it did", she concedes. "But it's not an idea, it's just a…" She doesn't know what to call it either. "Can't you just forget about it?"

Emily grabs Spencer's hand. "Listen, I'm not scared of you. And I am forgetting about it."

"Yeah, I could clearly see that in the way you received me with open arms."

"Spencer, honestly", Emily begs, "it's not your fault, I should never drink again."

Spencer smiles faintly, gives a tight squeeze back. "Me either." No, she doesn't understand. Emily  _cannot_  drink again. Emily wants to drink too much – all the time.

"So we don't drink anymore", Emily offers instead. "Okay?"

"Fine", Spencer agrees. "Not together anyway." She seems to think about it for a while. "It was me who messed up, so just try to… you know, you just have to think it's another one of my disturbingly stellar moments in life, but it's on me cause I'm weird when I'm drunk and…"

"We both know that's not true."

"But it  _is_  true."

"I was the one who actually thought it was all right to kiss you just because you had… you had done… you had just… whatever you did to make me feel better."

"Are we really going to discuss that again?"

"Well, I didn't even want to talk about it, Spencer."

"I didn't do it to make you feel better."

"Why did you do it then?" No, she shouldn't ask; she  _knows_  that's why Spencer did it. But Spencer's too proud and too caring to admit it.

"I don't know why I did it." Spencer stands up again. "I wanted to hug you."

"To make me feel better", Emily continues the obvious explanation, "and I just don't want you making me feel better like that."

Spencer rolls her eyes at this remark, which came out rather terminal and harsh, and brown grows strained and blurry. "I just want to help."

"You can't fix everything, you can't fix people dying or feeling bad."

"I'm not trying to fix you", Spencer snaps. Her voice cracks, and she looks hurt, small, breakable, and also slightly mad. But she's not breakable, or small. She's just Spencer: no one breaks Spencer, nothing does. "So you're saying I can't hug you anymore?"

"No, of course we can hug."

"Emily, you are acting  _weird_  with me."

"I just don't want you worrying about me all the time." Emily needs space. But then again the space terrifies her almost as much as the lack of it. Too much space can send her on a free fall, but the lack of it sucks her into a turmoil of emotions she can't handle. "It's stressing and it's… it's gonna make me…"

"Stressed?"

"Can we just please go around our normal business, you with Toby and I with my graves?"

"Shhhhhhhhh." Spencer looks pissed now. "Will you stop saying that?"

Emily slouches down against the big red hearts on the bench, stretching her legs until her head touches the window and her feet touch the floor. "Yeah, sorry." She looks down to her feet, then looks up to the blue fish up in the ceiling. Maybe the blue fish can stop this absurd discussion. Maybe the blue fish can stop Spencer from spinning with spider legs around the room, calling for a storm that makes Emily feel like a cat in need of being picked up and taken home, a person in need, a hobo, a sick person. Whose home? Whose hands?

Spencer doesn't spin anymore.

Instead, she sits down on the bench too, following Emily's line of sight.

"What are you looking at?"

"A dream catcher."

"Right."

"Maya gave it to me."

Spencer doesn't respond, but Emily can feel the long cold fingers gently creeping towards her own, lacing them together. Whose home, whose hands: that is the answer and Emily doesn't even want to hear it. Maya's name creates that sort of magic. She just has to say it and a hand immediately poses itself on her, wanting to offer shelter for the cat.

"I should go to the police, Spencer", Emily says after a while, "to explain what I did to Alison."

Spencer's whole body turns to face her with a glare. "You didn't do that to Alison."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because the whole thing was a  _set-up_ , Emily", Spencer repeats, "and can you just please  _explain_  what you did with Alison's body?" Oh, the logic of Spencer's mind is starting to wreak havoc. Spencer is actually right. "Cause you didn't have it in you when we got there."

"Maybe I gave it to someone." The idea is already disgusting.

"That's why we need you to remember."

"Still, I could go and…"

"Why don't you just sell us out then?" Spencer accuses, reminding her of their implication. "Because we all helped you get outta there and we made the shovel disappear."

"I can say you were never there."

"We all said you were with us in the lake house."

It's a collective fall, a common disgrace: together forever, in secret and out in the open, through better or worse, till death do us part. Whose death, Emily wonders, how many more deaths are they going to bear witness to? Who will be the next collateral damage?

"We can't start to be like this again."

"Nobody saw us", Spencer assures. "But if you talk we're done."

The heart in her throat, Emily has to face away, her eyes to the bed. "Great."

"Why don't you go tell Toby I cheated on him with you and Wren too?", Spencer fires, unable to stop. "If it's good to clean up your soul you should just do it."

That is what they call a punch too, a blow to the head, and Emily faces Spencer again.

"I'd never do that to you."

"But you want to."

They stare at each other, holding their breath in fear of the consequences of every word.

"I don't want to", Emily finally mumbles. "And you didn't cheat on him."

"With whom?"

"With  _anyone_."

"Are you sure you believe that?"

"Why else would I say it?"

Spencer looks back at Maya's blue fish. "To shut me up." Her jaw clenches, tendons flexing in tension. She seems conflicted about it. She is freaking out. She is  _also_  freaking out.

"Spence."

Spencer's eyes are darkened with black clouds when she returns the stare. Spencer brings the shelter but she's also bringing the storm.

"We are okay", Spencer says in a whisper. "It's what we said, we are fine."

"We have to be okay", Emily adds, blinking and blinking away as if she's going to fly with the next blink. "I can't handle messing this up too and I'm not going to."

"I can't handle messing it up either", Spencer agrees. "I need you, I mean, I really need you not as in I need you not to talk about the things we've done but as in I need you personally."

The complex confession makes Emily smile.

"I also need you personally."

For Emily, it's more urgent. It's also not right. It's something she doesn't want – to need someone right now, to need when all she wants is to stop all needs, to shut them out.

Spencer offers a lop-sided, arrogant smile. "I know you do." Of course, arrogance is Spencer's fall. Arrogant, cocky warmth is Spencer's fall. It's endearing but it's also annoying.

"We can't fight right now", Emily pleads. "I don't think I can deal with a fight."

"We're not fighting."

"You promise?"

"I promise", Spencer promises, a deadly serious look on her face. "I'm never gonna fight with you, Em."

"Thanks."

The day is dying and they're in semi-darkness now, and Emily wonders if Spencer is really planning to stay with her all night, because she is not moving, their fingers are still laced and her eyes are radiating sparks like fire in the rain or drops pouring down against a glass.

"I'm never gonna fight with you."

Even though it's the second time Spencer says that, or perhaps because it is, Emily takes Spencer's hand to her lips and kisses the stockier thumb in response. "Thank you." And she wants to say: thank you for being my friend, but it doesn't come out, not this time.

"I'm not sorry", Spencer mumbles, but the words are clear. "I'm not sorry, you know?"

"You're not sorry."

"About yesterday."

It's a shelter for the cat, it's the kiss.

Emily understands what Spencer means and that it's wrong too. She is begging for warmth and a shelter and Spencer can see it as well as anyone who cares about her, and Emily takes it because it is being offered to her, she needs to creep into it and to curl up into it, to rest her head into it, to sleep and dream into it, and maybe also breathe and feed off it. So she takes it shyly because she is still shy, a kiss to Spencer's palm. Her palm is crossed with lines and scents of the day. A distant acidic lemonish fragrance comes from her wrist, but the rest are things Spencer touches, bars and counters and cups of coffee and the laptop and the phone, pens and books, the steering wheel of the car and the knob to Emily's door. She kisses it again, her lips crushing so delicately against the lines that cross Spencer's palm, a small scar she's never seen before but that has probably been there for years because it doesn't look new, and which creates a very slight bump on the skin for the lips to taste. She kisses the scar too, and then it happens, and Emily can't claim drunkenness or stupidity because she knows: Spencer leans in and wraps her hands around her neck, it's the mouth now, it's the kiss, it's a pity kiss. She catches Spencer's lip before Spencer can pull back, Spencer tastes now like lip gloss and also like coffee, and then Spencer sighs into the kiss, causing weird electricity to run the surface of Emily's legs back to the back of her neck where Spencer's hands are resting. It's Spencer, a kiss. It's home. It's someone else's home.

A phone starts to ring.

"Shit."

Almost falling off from the bench, Spencer jumps up to grab her satchel and make the phone shut up. When she takes it, she just dismisses the call, silence reigns.

"Who is it?", Emily asks, panicked, because this silence has already changed. "Is it Toby? You should've answered."

Spencer glances back, cheeks still flushed. "No, it's not Toby."

"Is it A?"

She raises a brow. "No, of course not."

"Why didn't you take it? You should answer." Being adamant about Spencer answering the call seems a good way to erase the moment that has just passed.

"It was Garrett."

So Emily isn't expecting that.

"What do you mean it's Garrett? Why is Garrett calling you?"

Spencer sits on the bed, looking both flustered and concerned. "I'll tell you later."

Anger takes a hold of Emily, electricity running up and down once more for entirely different reasons. It's Maya. It's Maya's killer. It's adrenaline. It's gasoline.

"Later? No, Spencer, tell me  _now_."

Spencer takes a deep breath, but her eyes don't leave her face. "There's a couple things I… we haven't…"

"What are you trying to say?"

A gentle, firm knock on the door comes to Spencer's rescue. Her mother doesn't wait for permission and the next second there are three persons in the room, and there's no silence, and everything has changed forever.

"Dinner's ready", her mother says with a soft smile before directing her eyes to Spencer on the bed. "Spencer, do you want to stay?"

Spencer stands up. "I can't, but thank you."

"Are you sure? There's enough for three."

Spencer forces a smile. "No, I promised I'd be back for dinner."

Everybody knows the Hastings wouldn't really mind it if Spencer didn't make it for dinner, but Pam Fields doesn't seem to realize it, and she asks Emily to come downstairs in a minute, and Emily nods while Spencer puts the phone into her satchel and prepares to go.

It's a mess.

It's a mess now.

"I should go", Spencer says timidly once her mother has left the room. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow… or later on the phone, if you want."

Emily wants to scream. "What's going on?"

Spencer seems to hesitate about the correct answer. "I promise it's not bad", she finally says. "It's… I haven't talked to him yet."

"Yet?"

Spencer takes another deep breath, but her voice sounds commanding now. "This is not the moment to talk about it, okay?"

"Are you always going to treat me like I can't know  _anything_?"

"Aria and Hanna doesn't know about Garrett either."

"What else aren't you telling me?"

"Things we didn't want you to know so you could feel better, Emily."

In response Emily throws the red heart cushion to the floor, because it's the only thing close she can trash and throw. It's a childish move. It's a tantrum.

"Yeah, you're doing a great job of that."

Spencer has put on her poker-face mask, but it looks weak on the edges. "What do you mean?"

"We're not doing this anymore."

"Doing what?"

"Doing the I-kiss-you-because-I-feel-sorry-for-you thing, Spencer", Emily throws now to her face, "and we are  _not_  drunk anymore, and this  _is_  cheating, for your information, because it's also cheating when you're kissing your gay friend."

"You're not cheating on Maya." Spencer has paled like death. "I know what it is."

Maya.

Maya is dead. That's why it's not cheating for her.

"I can't do this to Maya and I don't  _want_  to."

"You don't have to."

"I don't  _want_  to and I'm not  _going_ to."

Spencer nods, biting her lip, doing a really efficient job of not jumping at the throat of it. She could do it. It would be the normal thing for her to do. But she promised they wouldn't fight, and they're fighting now, and Spencer seems the only person interested in retreat.

"I'll call you tonight", she announces, walking towards the door like a distant queen. The queen turns around before leaving, though. "And just… let's forget about this, Em."

Suddenly Emily feels the danger of a real abandonment. "What are you gonna do?"

"I'm just gonna forget it's happened", Spencer says slowly, "and… if you can do the same then we'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

Spencer takes two steps towards her. "Yeah, I'm sure." She smiles a ghostly encouraging smile, but it's enough, because Emily believes her. It's Spencer and she always believes her.

Spencer leaves.

Spencer doesn't call later, but it's better this way. Emily goes to sleep and looks at the blue fish and at the red heart. She doesn't want a shelter. She can't have a shelter. Any shelter is going to blow up in smithereens if she gets inside it; what she wants, what she needs she can't have because it's buried deep in a grave, it's gone. But she is alive. Maya is in her. And the stray cat can't be a cat anymore if it wants to survive, it has to become a panther. It is already, perhaps, a panther (with a tantrum and a tendency to mess things up). Emily dreams of a panther tonight, a panther around Alison's body – who doesn't look like a corpse at all, more like the sleeping beauty in the fairy tale – and then Maya comes back to tell her they got it all wrong, they got it all wrong from the start.

* * *


	5. Maybe Just One More Try

" _Quick lunch? Can't make it for coffee today_. S."

When she pushes the send button, Spencer is walking steadily in her heels, graciously storming through the tables and the chairs as she approaches Tillman's office for a meeting.

She checks the phone for her messages once she's out, an hour later.

" _Can't be lunch. Got clients._ "

It's a typical excuse that Spencer has already heard but, disheartening as it sounds, she decides to push it. Push it like she used to when she was younger; like she still does, just not with Emily, not for a long time. But - the last time they saw each other everything felt  _right_ , as if things (them) were suddenly falling into place, or as if they were perhaps getting there at last, but what place are they falling into, and where are they actually getting at, this she's not sure of. She can't help but wonder. Well, Emily said they were friends when she asked her; she did need the verbal confirmation in order to know the rules by which she should abide in her behaviour. However, she doesn't believe there's a safe place where they could land and make perfect amends; maybe it's all about giving it another chance, and another one, and then another one, because after all she has wanted this for years, right? It had been so long and she had already lost faith in convincing Emily to be back in each other's lives, and ever since that night (the night they had dinner at her place) they've been texting each other from time to time. Six times, actually; Spencer has counted them, and the number increases to forty two if you include actual replies and all; normal acts of communication; Emily even took the initiative half of the times (that is  _three_ ), which is a very good sign too. Also, Emily called last night, like she said she would. She seems to be back. So maybe it's a good moment to push it a little and see where it gets her.

But where does it have to get her?

They're friends so… to the next coffee shop. That's all she needs to know for today.

" _Coffee then? Really quick one?_ "

" _Thought you couldn't make it for coffee._ "

" _I can if coffee means really fast coffee_."

" _And how fast would that be?_ "

Spencer sends a quick glance to her watch. It's ten. Maybe she can escape the office without anyone  _really_  noticing.

" _Half an hour in an hour._ "

It takes Emily three more seconds than normal (normal refers to the last seven times, including this one) to send a reply, and it's almost as if Spencer could hear a soft huff of frustration.

" _Ok. I hate this city._ "

Spencer bumps into a table, gasping for air when the edge stings her thigh. She's probably going to get a violet bruise from this; she's prone to getting bruises. And she doesn't definitely walk like a gracious storm when trying to pay attention to the screen of her phone.

Thanks, Emily, for the bump.

" _I thought you liked it._ "

" _It goes too fast_."

Is that a protest for the briefness of the encounter to come?

" _Time?_ "

" _NYC_."

" _I don't follow_."

" _This city: too fast_."

Now it's Spencer who huffs out in slight frustration.

" _Make up your Californian mind before I get ran over by another table_."

Seven seconds pass.

" _I don't follow."_

A smile finds the way to her lips, and she's still just standing up next to the damaging edge of the table. She can feel Sarah's eyes on her, because she never stands up in the middle of the office doing nothing of importance, especially not after a meeting with Tillman, especially not  _her_. So she returns Sarah's gaze, just to show she  _is_  aware of her surroundings, table's edge and Sarah's body included.

" _Is that a yes?_ "

" _Yes. Where?_ "

That's the answer she wants and Spencer smirks in satisfaction, proceeding to type the address of a coffee shop next to the office.

It's a date.

"What's that smile about?"

Sarah is already next to her.

"I'm not smiling."

"You're allowed to feel happy about the Miller case, you know." Sarah's snarl sounds somewhat encouraging. "It's okay, I won't resent it."

"That's nice of you."

"I'm nice and you're happy, so it's all fair in the game."

"I'm not sure happy is the word for it", Spencer replies, winking, "or even  _game_ , but you're very right, I feel good."

She goes back to her post, straightens in her seat and pulls out a stack of papers and photographs and reports. Sarah is her main competitor in the office, but Spencer actually likes her. She's not a bitch. She just likes to push her to her limits but that's actually good, Spencer thinks, as long as it remains sportive. Sportive. What the hell. It's not sportive, it's better than that, it's a freaking  _job_ , it's real life, it's Manhattan, it's the top of the world, it's  _alive_. So it's good because it means she can get better and better - and better – and because she can reach farther and farther – and farther. But Sarah's nice. And she's really good too. Spencer's seen her in court: tricky, always with a quick mind, resourceful. Spencer needs her. If it weren't for her, she wouldn't know which buttons to push and who else to beat. So she likes her. She wouldn't go out to have a beer – or coffee – with her, but she respects her. But: sorry Sarah, this one is for Spencer, and Tillman chose her for the Miller case. She's scoring her first goal. It's the sweet smell of success, a sweet smell Spencer Hastings-Melfort is sniffing at last, a sweet smell to complete everything about herself and at the same time to deny it; if that makes sense, which probably doesn't, just like tables don't run over people because they just happen to be there, obstacles in the way - to where?

Court, coffee shops.

Success doesn't smell sweet in Spencer's case, though. It never has.

It smells like a crime.

And this Miller guy, he's a big fat boy caught in the act, and his is a big fat case. It's not just petty burglary anymore, it's not simply a street drug dealer. It's crime, capital crime, capital letters crime.

She has to tell Emily about it.

"You're still smiling."

"Excuse me?"

Spencer just can't see the relevance of a smile.

"You're looking at a corpse and you're smiling", Sarah warns, and now she sounds amused, "so it's sort of creepy, I just thought you should know."

Ha.

She actually looks at the picture where her gaze had apparently decided to rest and, yes, she understands a smile can look creepy, psychotic even, so she coughs to get the smile out of the way.

"You see this?" Her finger points at a tattoo stained in blood in the left arm of the corpse. "The police can relate it to Franks. His daughter did it, it's the same ink. So Miller…"

"Aha…"

"Which means", Spencer breathes in, "I'm winning this case."

Sarah returns the creepy smile automatically. "You?"

"Well, Tillman", Spencer corrects, "but I'll be helping."

Sweet, sweet smell of success.

I've got you.

Sarah laughs a little. "Okay, you're winning, but try not to look creepy while you're doing it, Spencer."

Fair enough.

She nods, a little defeated. "Yeah." Obvious, it's like the ABC.

She looks back at the stained arm and at the bloody head and, by now, she's used to it, kind of, but it's still a little nauseating, so instead she opens the transcripts of one of the conversations they got from the wire the police did to Franks. It's all pretty much there, and here, and there, but she has to put it all together for Tillman. Her head is a folder, it's an organizer, but it's not only memory that her head offers, nor is it only logical or mathematical; she likes to pull the knots and follow the threads and imagine patterns. Tillman appreciates that. Tillman  _is_  like that, only he's better. It's like conceiving of a work of art, except it's not art; it's just the law; it's also, let's remember, it's also a crime but it's not about solving it or finding out the truth about it, or even about judging it, it has to do more with  _presenting_  it, like a pattern, like a story, and it has to make sense.

Like tables running over you in the office.

She wonders what Emily would think of that.

Maybe she wouldn't think anything of it, not anymore.

No, she has to think something, she's going to be a therapist. She's probably full of ideas about this. She can probably trace it all back… to where? Childhood, probably. Childhood memories. Once they were kids, then they got older, then they are here. It's all a story.

Spencer checks her watch again, and it's time to go.

"I have a headache", she announces as she stands up resolutely, a stack of police reports in her hands to offer the appearance of hard work. Then she opens her drawer and gets one of the blue pills that help her breathe and concentrate faster. "Will be right back."

It's barely a breath-out, so nobody really turns to look at her as she walks past the sliding doors at the entrance.

See you later, Sarah.

You are actually quite the bitch, but I like you, I probably won't do without you.

Spencer waits in the street although it's freezing outside, it's February, but it's an act of kindness because Emily doesn't really know the city that well. For a minute she believes she is waiting for a younger Emily, the Emily who would be afraid of this city, and then she is reminded of the real Emily who actually told her the city was scary sometimes. So it makes sense to wait. It's five minutes early, and she tries to warm up her hands by blowing into the leather gloves, and then, when she realizes it's pointless, she looks at the steam that comes out of the gutter in tides and reproduces the image with her own mouth. Steam, steam. Somehow they don't look so similar, but it's the same effect. Sweet smell of success, you're tasting like a scary, frozen vapour in my lips, yet I want you so much, yet I don't really care.

"Spencer, why're you here?"

It's her.

"Hey", Spencer greets back, closing her playful, steam-vapour mouth. "I…" And now what is she going to say? I didn't want you to get scared, or I didn't want it to go too fast, and it'd be true. "Just so you'd spot the place."

Emily wraps her arms around her, same as ever, time standing still, nothing changes.

Well, clothes do change.

Emily's dressed up in her work clothes, a power suit that is serious but seductive and evidently feminine, curves under the coat, a touch of color around the neck, and look at her, she is all grown-up, not a sign of the old sneakers or the shoulder-less t-shirts, not even of the tight party dresses, long legs in the New York night. It makes Spencer smile.

"Look at you, all grown-up."

Emily does this weird thing when she both smirks and half rolls her eyes: complicity and irritation paint her features, which means she finds it amusing when she steals a glance at Spencer's much more formal skirt and blouse. Then the smirk turns into an infectious smile. It contrasts with the way she rubs her gloves in a pointless effort to instil warmth.

"You're probably freezing, I know because  _I'm_  freezing." Whether it's the smile or the rubbing gloves, the argument seems conclusive. "Let's go inside."

Spencer is starting to turn around in order to follow the order when she catches Emily's look of attention.

It's the hair.

Now it's above her shoulders, ends still tickling her neck, ever since she got a haircut three weeks ago. Emily's never seen it like this.

But they come inside first, and the heater makes her flush before they find a table to seat.

"Your hair", Emily voices the surprise out, "wow, it's so much shorter, Spencer."

So it  _is_  the hair.

"Is it a wow kind of good or a wow really, really bad?"

Emily makes a suspenseful pause, narrowing her eyes. "I like it."

"I needed a change, but I'm afraid it makes me look younger."

Today it's brushed and properly tied with a hairpin, but the days she doesn't take enough care of it the natural waves tend to take possession of her head, freaking out in all directions in a savage, bristled fury, and she looks like she could be a modern hippie with a guitar, except she doesn't own the guitar.

Emily laughs – it's kind of shy. "You're afraid to look younger?"

"Just because of the job. I need to look serious and… you know, impressive in court too."

"You always look serious", she smiles, this time with a touch of knowing slyness, "and impressive, so I wouldn't worry."

"You haven't seen me on Sunday mornings", Spencer replies, "well, not after the haircut anyway."

Emily doesn't feel the need to respond anything but another "I like it" which seems even more believable when her arm stretches out to touch the carefully arranged waves with the tips of her fingers, curiosity, electricity, curiosity. "It's nice, and different." A pause marks her thoughts. "And very classy, your trademark, right?"

The compliment surprises Spencer a little, but she doesn't let on.

"Always."

Emily looks down at the menu of different coffees, hot chocolates and teas. "So how long do we still have? Like five minutes, right?"

Her tone borders on businesslike annoyance, and for the first time in years Spencer can picture Emily in a business meeting, clients dancing around in pirouettes of worship, but can you give us more, Emily, no, this is as much as I can do  _right now_  for you all, but it's all good, you have to try it and then call me if you have any problem with it (she will pick up their calls, no matter what time, day or night), and all of them are hypnotized by the combination of charming smiles and matter-of-fact honesty that makes Emily so perfect to sell anything. She remembers Emily doesn't like her job, though. But she doesn't go for that.

"I thought you  _liked_  this city."

Spencer doesn't even glance over at her watch to confirm if there are still more than five minutes left for them, doesn't even take a quick look at the menu. It's like she doesn't really care. She thought Emily sort of liked NYC.

"I don't like running from one place to another", Emily clarifies, "and I practically had to cross the whole city to meet you here for thirty minutes."

"When you say the whole city you mean actually the whole city or just Manhattan?"

Emily's lashes flutter. "Manhattan."

"Yeah, you must really  _like_  me."

"It's still crazy", Emily argues against the sarcasm, "plus… come on, is everybody always angry here?"

"Yes", Spencer confirms, but she is an exception - today. "There are taxis too, you know."

"Don't get me started on that one."

"So you actually  _ran_  all the way here?"

"Are you trying to make it look like less of a sacrifice?"

Spencer laughs out at the exchange. "That's exactly what I'm trying to do."

Emily's hand (polished nails, red, only a very discreet ring in her pinkie) rises to call the attention of the waitress. "Well, it's not working."

They both have coffee, they both have black.

They both talk a little about their meetings, about Emily's clients who she loathes, about Spencer's haircut which is meant to signify the portal she's crossing right now to success.

"It's a really  _big_  case."

And Emily gives her the look, the look that says she knows it's really  _big_  (although she doesn't really know what it's about), and that she admires that; no, it's the look that says this is what she's been expecting of Spencer, no less, this moment of critical importance, the case that turns a career around and puts a name out there, big neon words, and that she's proud of her. She also looks a little sad when she watches the time and finishes her coffee in a rush. Spencer's never been able to handle Emily's sadness quite decently.

It's half an hour.

It's only half an hour.

But Spencer wants to tell her everything,  _everything_ , and half an hour cannot be enough.

"How about dinner tonight?"

"It's… I'm gonna be really tired, and tomorrow…"

It is possible to hear rejection in her stutter.

Push it like the old days.

Just because of the look.

Just because she wants to tell everything, and also to  _hear_  so much more. There are still so many things she doesn't really know: about K.C., about college, child psychology, even about India, about  _anything_  Emily wants to say today.

"I know an Italian place, we can just have a nice dinner." The offer is tainting, tantalizing, devilishly corrupting of a pure soul. "It's close to your hotel too."

There's the inner struggle again.

But Emily was protesting, she was protesting about the brevity of the encounter a few minutes ago, so Spencer believes she's allowed to do the pushing. This is just how it works.

"My plane's leaving at 8."

"You'll be fine", another push rolls down her tongue, and then, "I'm calling Mark to tell him I'm not going home for dinner."

Doubt is what she sees now.

"You sure? I mean, you…"

And then: "He's got loads of work, it's okay."

This does it.

This really does it.

And maybe it's Mark who's out of the picture, or maybe it's Spencer's push, or maybe not; but she can't ask; not right now.

She will ask – while having dinner, perhaps.

They rush out, see-you-laters flowing around as they put their gloves and their coats on, and Spencer runs back to her post.

Later becomes earlier.

She makes sure to rush through the day, documents to get home with her as if they are adult-world homework and, by the time Spencer gets to the restaurant, the blue pill has worn off long ago and she knows she can drink alcohol, and so they order wine for dinner. The conversation is light, and the successive glasses of wine make it lighter, and Spencer can't help but think of the first dinner at her apartment, Emily talking in considerate, reserved trims, letting Mark do all the talking, and also her, and it's still oh-so-Emily to do that; there is also the other part, the part where she actually gets intimate and expressive, and Spencer is happy just with the fact that the subtle transformation actually happened in her balcony, which is her special place on earth, along with other places in New York. Still…

The waitress comes with another bottle of wine.

"This is getting so Ashley Marin", Spencer blurts out, and her joke is met with a grin, "and who ordered this?"

" _You_."

Yes, most probably, but Spencer is a little worried that she doesn't remember the moment.

"I should go to the restroom before attacking that one."

Concern flashes in Emily's eyes.

"Are you okay? We can always send it back."

Spencer quirks a brow in response while she walks (and, yes, she is steady) to the restroom.

The mirror reflects a person with reddish, tired eyes.

Standing under the white light, her hair still in place, she knows maybe she shouldn't drink more because… after all, tomorrow they both have to work, and Emily's catching a plane, and well, maybe the blue pill hasn't left her system completely and that is why she's feeling a little odd and why there's a buzz in her ear. She arches her brow, this time at herself, and she likes what she sees, and so she goes back to the table and opens the bottle.

"I know a really good jazz place where we can go after this", she hears her voice say, "to get mojitos. On Wednesdays and Fridays they have live music, and it's not always jazz, just so you know."

Was that a spark in Emily's eyes?

"I have a plane to catch in about ten hours, Spencer", comes the not so light reply. "Just so you remember."

"I know", she concedes, "but… I'm just saying it's not that late."

"You look tired."

This reply sounds a lot more personal.

"That's because I  _am_  tired." Another concession. Then, maybe, perhaps the truth. "It's this case, it's really getting on my nerves, and you know me, it _has_  to work out."

Setting her own glass down on the table, Emily looks back and offers a thoughtful nod. "It is going to work out", she assures, again like she knows it, is so sure of it. "Is that why you want to go out, just so you can get even  _more_ tired?"

"Go out?"

"Well, you're saying you want to go to a club."

"But you do like to go out, right?" She's always been an expert in turning tables. "So, you know, I thought it'd be good for you to get to know other places in NYC where you can go partying."  _With India_  almost slips out.

Apparently Emily heard it anyway, because she frowns. "Right."

"It's not like we see each other a lot."

And what she actually means by this is: we never see each other anymore; we  _used_  to see each other all the time;  _please_  let's see more of each other now, please let's go somewhere else too, let's take it easy, let's keep talking, please, please, please, just this one.

Emily seems to understand the message, because she says: "We've seen more of each other in the last five months than in the last three or four years." And it sounds serious. Like a sacrifice. Like crossing the city – well, the tiny peninsula of Manhattan – for a quick coffee.

God, she's right.

"Right."

Spencer feels like stepping back, suddenly the words are too heavy, and she also feels like she can't just go and breathe out the wine-blue-pilled truth. But this morning, during coffee, she had the distinctive impulse to grab this: Emily's presence in her life can just never be replaced with someone else's, so she just needs to see her, she has missed her so much. But maybe she just has to loosen it up again, pretend not to really care that much, go on, get by without it, or continue to wait, or something: live with it. Freedom has to be granted to Emily; to both of them; and they have to get to know each other again. This is not a compulsive friendship. There is no danger around it, pushing it off the limits, the cliffs, the limits… This is not Rosewood. This is New York City, 2023. It's so far from home.

"No, I don't mean it like that", Emily struggles, "I…"

She can't believe she told Emily to get her shit together back in December – she is thinking of compulsive friendships, for god's sake, and she hates to get this clingy.

"It's fine, Em, we can do that the next time you're here."

"I'd love to go tonight."

"You don't have to feel forced to go, I was just trying to…"

"I don't feel forced to go, I  _want_  to go."

They lock eyes, and Spencer leaves her napkin on the table because the moment feels intense enough for her to do something with her hands.

"Really, we can do it next time."

Now she's starting to get really afraid there is never going to be a next time because she fucked up.

Emily smiles – it's the soothing kind of a smile.

"No, let's go now."

The result of this dinner is a full bottle of wine that has been abandoned on the table after being paid for, so they can go to the jazz club and drink mojitos which Spencer shouldn't probably be drinking.

"It's good", Emily approves after timidly sipping on her glass. A quick look-around the club seems to also get the place her approval. "You were right, this is nice, it's all nice."

"Told you."

Spencer thinks (well, she is thinking many thoughts at once, but this is one of them) that Emily really handles alcohol much better than when she was a teenager. She seems so perfectly composed. Another thought is: there's no one singing tonight, they are listening to oldies, which might turn into an advantage because they can actually hear each other. Right now: Chet Baker elegantly cries  _I get along without you very well, of course I do_ , and it's, well… she doesn't let that one get to her, because that would be  _too_ ironic even for her taste, but it doesn't completely escape her. Another thought is: why are we even here?

The flow of thoughts gets interrupted when Emily coughs as a way to claim back attention.

"So tell me about this case."

They are here because they are friends.

End of story.

No,  _new_  beginning of story.

"It's…" It's funny she doesn't know what to say.

"Why are you so worried about it?"

Chet Baker is currently telling her to stick to her tune instead of phoning once more, but Tillman is the first thing that comes to mind when asked about the case. "There's this guy I work with… well,  _for_ , who is probably the most brilliant guy I've ever met in my entire life." Emily's nod registers in her head as an indication that the story does make sense and Emily is indeed following it. "So I guess I… I know this can mean a lot of things for me, but also I think mostly I just want to impress him." It's barely the beginning of her career, she knows she is still too young to be really noticed. But Tillman is everything she's ever looked up to in law, and she didn't even know it back when she was studying, although there was also this Professor… Professor Butler… That was her name, and now her thoughts are getting entangled, and she's confusing two aspects of the law.

"He's probably impressed if he's choosing you for the job."

Spencer offers a shrug. "He's a nice guy."

"But that's not why he chose you."

"No, of course not."

Emily smirks, satisfied with the latest response. "So what's wrong with it? You taught me… you know, you always said there was nothing wrong with wanting things."

True.

The memory is fresh: junior year, the beginning of the mess, Emily wanted the captaincy of the swim team, Paige was her rival (ironic), she told Emily to go get it.

"Because there's nothing wrong with it."

"So?"

Yes, so?

Spencer sighs into the dim lights. She wanted Emily to talk too. "You really wanna know?"

"Please."

She likes it, she likes the sound of please in Emily's voice.

"Sometimes I still think… I don't know." This is her best friend in front of her, so she'd better shrug it off and say it. "I guess I still have doubts about the whole lawyer thing."

Emily wraps her fingers around the glass. The red nails salute her. Hello there again.

"What kind of doubts?"

"Back at law school I had this professor, this really good professor, and I was her TA for some months." The explanation is tentative. It's not really an explanation. She's just nervous about the case. "I did research in a few case studies, I taught some classes, it was fun."

Emily's eyes widen ever so slightly. Spencer can tell she's surprised.

"You'd like to teach?"

"Not necessarily, it's just that sometimes…"

Emily sips, then lets go of her straw, her lips wet with rum and soda. "You'd be a great teacher too, Spencer, but I always thought this was what you loved most."

"I love it", her hand waves off, dismissive, "I do love it, it's just… I am good at it, you know, but sometimes it's exhausting to be dealing with criminals all the time and, don't get me wrong, I'm much better at it than I used to be, because we all know how that turned out", she gets out of breath, it feels like she's running now, "but you know, I'm not the police, I'm not working  _for_  them, and I'm not the judge or the jury either so I don't get to decide when  _I'm_ the one who's wrong about someone." She just dropped a bomb, but Emily only blinks and nods in appreciation. It's not a bomb for her. It's not a bomb anymore. It's intimate knowledge between them. "I guess I'm babbling now." The brow rises and the voice lowers an octave. "Too much mojito."

"No, I think I get it", Emily says, not as cautiously as she would say it had she not been drinking wine and a mojito too, "but you're just working for the State, so it's…"

"Right, so it's a job, it's not like our life depends on it."

The pronoun  _our_  seems so easy to say in this context. That's what it all comes down to.

"I get it", Emily says again, but then she falls silent and looks up like she is about to ask a question. "I… So you're tired of dealing with criminals?"

"Yeah", Spencer confirms. "Only sometimes. It's probably the PTSD stuff we talked about in December. But most times I just get high on it."

And with that and a smirk she raises her mojito and silently toasts to working in crime.

Emily seems uncertain, though. "Right."

"I do like the job."

"You don't need it if you don't like it."

"I  _studied_  for it."

She doesn't really think she could do anything else.

"I know but… maybe you just need to think about what you really want to do and what you don't", Emily advices, "and, you know, you'd be a great teacher and probably a great researcher too, but you also like to  _act_  on things."

This is exactly what Spencer has always thought about her own career choices.

Action, accusations.

"Well, if I were a teacher I could always accuse my students of plagiarizing essays", she jokes, and Emily rolls her eyes, catching instantly on her train of thought. "It may not be as thrilling as putting someone in front of a court, but it does have an appeal, right?"

"It sounds boring."

"It sounds like I'd have a lot to read."

"And that sounds a lot less boring", Emily attempts to joke back, and she smiles big and shiny. It's a flashy smile, and it's stunning, like every time Emily finds joy in something. "But you'd love that."

"Are you calling me boring now?"

"I'm not sure you'd get all the action you need out of it, though."

Spencer finds that amusing. "What kind of action? You know, besides accusing people."

"Well, you're pretty physical too."

"It's not like I can actually punch people in court, Em."

They laugh at the image. Now she can ask for a life sentence instead of screaming  _die_  to someone while flying over a table in an uncontrollable rage. Well, it's an improvement.

"I think you're probably under lots of pressure right now, that's all", Emily concludes with a smile – the soothing type again. "You just need to relax, which is… big news for you, right?"

"Big news", Spencer agrees, pensive. "And that's why we're here."

"Yeah, that's why we're here."

So this is why they are here.

Because they're friends, because they're here being friends and doing what friends do. It's their story. They can talk about things. They can talk about _everything_  she can never say out loud to basically  _anyone_.

"We can talk about things."

This is the first time she actually voices as much as one single doubt about the law.

No, not about the law.

She knows how tricky the law is; it doesn't shock her or scandalize her anymore. It's the feeling of always running after something, someone she can't ultimately get – not in time, anyway, not before it's too late – no matter how much effort she puts into it, even though she doesn't personally care about the outcome, even though she can't be held responsible for failing if she fails; only in terms of job-performance, but not in terms of crude survival.

She can't believe Mark asked Emily about Toby back in December.

It's so infuriating.

The fact she can't call him out on it is even worse, though; but it's all on her.

A bossa nova cover of  _Purple Rain_  is on now. She recognizes it only after it's been sounding for a while, its effect so calming, so medically, anaesthetically calming: in contrast with the sexy guitars of the original version, this one has bells and a clarinet.  _I only wanted to one time see you laughing_ … She's never understood purple rain. It's probably a bad metaphor for getting showered in unicorns and rainbows and it's always sounded so selfish. Suddenly – it's almost as if she could actually understand what it is about – for a second – before she loses the sense to wet, selfish unicorns again, and this is so infuriating too, because what the hell, it doesn't make  _any_ sense, not even while she's semi-drunk, which is saying a lot.

"So what was that about getting hit by a table?", Emily asks, making conversation again, and her chin meets the palm of her hand. "Did it hurt?"

"Oh, so you did follow."

Emily smiles as an answer – sweet. "Were you texting me when it happened?"

"Yes. And it did hurt."

"Sorry about that."

"You are  _very_ much forgiven. It wasn't your fault anyway, it was the table's."

"Well, I hope you have enough evidence to prosecute it."

Spencer grins in response before mumbling a dreamy "maybe", and they both grin now.

They are so in synch.

Look at you, she thinks, all grown-up discussing adult-world problems in your adult-world clothes and with your adult-world drinks. Look at you two, all dressed up for the life that matters, spending the night at a club in this city, so cool, so reality-cool but also sometimes so exhausting, and  _it's time we all reach out for something new, that means you too, you say you want a leader but you can't seem to make up your mind, let me guide you_ , the bossa nova sings with snake-eyed charm. She did guide them out of Rosewood, mistakes and all. No one lives there anymore. Everybody sold their houses, except for her parents, but she never goes back. Nobody does. Nobody ever wants to go back home.

Maybe the song does have a meaning to her.

At some point during the night she is going to step out of the club and be reminded that the city exists, people in it, but she doesn't know about it now. It's a Wednesday night and so there is only a couple sitting at a table far enough. They're the only proof there are more people in the world. The dim lights cast a purplish glow over their faces; well, to be fair, it's reddish. The guy just made a face and she's laughing at him. They're cute. He reminds her of Mark, but Mark is so much more handsome. Maybe this is what the purple rain ends up being, save for the fact that they are all actually dry and it's not raining.

Emily snaps a finger at her. "Where'd you go?"

She blanks out. "Not sure." To real life, to purplish-rainy real life, which takes place  _here_.

"You're tired, we should go."

"Not yet."

Emily arches her own brows. "Are we ever going to get some sleep tonight?"

But Spencer still has half a mojito left, so she holds the glass up and takes a sip, nodding in reassurance. They will get some sleep, of course. They're not superheroes. But they're close.

She doesn't want to stop being in synch just yet.

Emily's looking expectantly at her, though. You say you want a leader. Are you wanting a leader now? You look like you'd make a great leader. You were a leader once. She should really never mix alcohol with the anxiety medication: it makes her think the most strange, disconnected thoughts.

"Maybe", Spencer mumbles again, heart suddenly racing up, buzz frizzling in her ear, "maybe I have a question for you."

Emily's grin makes a comeback – softly mocking. " _Maybe_? Are you that drunk?"

"I do have a question."

She has so many questions, but this is one to start with. This needs to be an exchange.

"So shoot", Emily says, clearly intrigued. "I'm ready."

"Why did you break up with K.C.? I mean, I know I already asked you about it, but you never really answered."

It's a mortal jump: Emily's face falls slightly, caught completely off guard.

"Wow, that's a big change." There's a failed attempt at a smile. "Wasn't expecting that one right now."

She was probably expecting a question about the job, or college, to continue their journey through the land of professional adulthood.

"Sorry", Spencer shrugs an apology. "Last time we saw each other you said I could ask directly, and I'm just curious."

"What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you want to say", which for the look of it is nothing. "But it's fine, you don't need to, Em."

"No, it's okay."

It's clearly not okay, but it's also late to take it back. The best Spencer can do now is move forward, and so she does move her hand to pull her wallet out of her purse and on the table.

"I'm gonna pay for this."

"I'm going to the restroom."

Spencer watches her leave after Emily has offered the money which Spencer has accepted reluctantly – she wanted to buy her the mojito, if only because it was her idea to come here, but she doesn't feel like entering the classic debate over who pays what tonight and who pays what the next time. She's tired, extremely tired right now. In the bar she hands out her credit card. The barman knows her from other times and asks about Mark, and she makes some conversation, explains Mark is working late hours and could not make it tonight and she is here with an old friend after showing her the city (which is simply false, all of it; almost all of it). He says her friend is hot. Yes, she is, Spencer agrees, isn't she. He says if she's single could she get him her number, to which Spencer responds with an incredulous look, but he just chuckles like it's nothing and says he's kidding, anyway she doesn't live in the city so there's no point. No, there's no point, buddy. You're way out of her league. You don't even know how far gone you are. Or – possibly – you do know, that's why you will never have the guts to ask her directly. You'll never have what it takes. You'll never give what it takes. Relax, you're not her type. India is her type. K.C. was her type; Paige was her type; Maya too; Alison.  _Women_. He gives her the machine so she can type her PIN number and she grabs it with what she hopes is neither a glare nor an open mouth of outraged shock, although when she drinks too much she is not so sure about what her face says to people, it might be either dismissive or plainly accusing, who knows. Another classic song is playing and it makes her feel sad. It talks about learning to say goodbye, and for some reason she's not sure she can take it, so she looks away at the street while the guy hands her the receipt.

They leave.

It's a silent walk to the hotel that takes barely five minutes.

She's ready to just say goodbye until the next time, if there is a next time (words like freedom and pride and friendship and live with it are pushing against the walls of her brain), when she stops at the entrance and pretends to numbly declare her exhaustion and wish Emily a good night and a safe trip back tomorrow. She doesn't make it through the first declaration of exhaustion before Emily cuts her off.

"I was a moron to her, so she hates me."

Her eyes are warm, but clearly this is something that has taken some work to speak out.

"K.C.?"

The question is dumb, because what Spencer wants to ask is: a moron?

There's no way Emily could have been a moron to anyone.

Ever since she's known Emily, she's known most of her girlfriends. Well, she doesn't know how many there were between K.C. and India, and she's not even sure if Emily gives India the girlfriend status, it wasn't clearly stated last time, but anyway she's known her through her life with her girlfriends up to K.C. Maya, Paige, that Monica girl who actually only lasted like six months, a couple of girls whose names she can't even remember, and K.C. And not once has Emily behaved like a moron. So it's impossible.

"There's not much to say about it."

For some reason that sounds untrue, although not exactly dishonest.

"K.C. hates you?" Again it's quite stupid. "Because you broke up with her?"

There's a silence, but Emily doesn't look away.

"I broke up because… well, you know she proposed, I said yes, did you know that?"

"Hanna told me", Spencer grits out. That was a long time ago. Two years ago? Anyway, before Mark. "She's been my personal informant for all things you."

Emily's eyes turn watery. "Yeah." It looks like this is important for her. "I do want to tell you, it's just difficult to talk about it."

"So what happened?"

"I changed my mind."

"Right."

"It's just that I changed my mind."

"Why?"

And that is the key question: why?

"We wanted kids, but then I just…"

Wait, what?

"You've  _always_  wanted  _kids_."

"I still do", Emily explains, wrapping herself in her coat, "just not with her. It just made me realize it was… if I wasn't sure about that then there was a bigger problem with us being together, but I just… I had never thought about that."

There's another silence and a taxi slows down as if they're waiting here to catch it, but when neither of them moves the car speeds up like fire could be invented again from the scratch of rubber against asphalt. Spencer could swear there was an insult involved too.

"Idiot."

The word is out of her mouth but all Spencer is thinking is: she's getting the picture. Emily said yes to the marriage and the kids and then changed her mind.

Low blow.

Low blow.

Low blow.

K.C. hates Emily. It's understandable. No, it's still not so understandable.

She gazes back at Emily, who's been waiting for her to say something.

"So now you know."

"Kids are a great responsibility."

"They are, right?"

Yes.

No, Spencer doesn't really know about kids… Or about why any of this ever happened. Like… why did all of this happen? And why did Emily even say yes if…?

"Why did you say yes?"

"I thought that was what I wanted."

"You mean  _who_  you wanted."

"I mean everything."

Nodding means understanding, so Spencer nods – it's an impulse. "Yeah."

"That's why she hates me."

"She has no reason to."

Emily laughs – it's a nervous laugh. "You don't need to defend me on this one, Spencer. She has every right."

"You did the right thing", Spencer says. "You can't get married if you're not sure, least of all have kids with someone you don't really want to spend at least a substantial part of your future with, so…"

" _I know that_ ", Emily says, "and it's still bad."

"Well, yeah, but…"

"No but", Emily settles, and when Emily settles something it has the power to shut Spencer up. "It's bad, but it's also… it's what happened."

Another nod. "I agree." Then something else she should say. "Thanks for telling me." Thanks for finally telling me. Thanks for being here. Thanks for having a drink with me. Thanks for…

"Thanks for asking."

"Yeah, you totally  _loved_  that", Spencer jokes. "I should've asked about India."

They burst out in laughter.

"You know about India."

"I know she's your fuck buddy."

"Don't call her that."

"Sex is healthy, Em."

"I don't treat her like that."

Spencer is sure Emily treats India really kindly, that's clear. Still – fuck buddy it is.

"You mean you don't have sex with her?"

Emily shoots a murderous look, but then her fingers are again on Spencer's hair. "I like it, it looks pretty." The sudden renewal of acceptance throws Spencer off balance.

"Thanks."

"So… good night."

"When are you coming back?"

"Don't know yet."

"When are you gonna invite me to visit?" This is a shot she wasn't expecting to take. "You know I've only been in LA once."

Doubt she sees – inner struggle. A spark too. Definitely.

Spark.

Spark.

"You're invited to come whenever you can."

Emily – always so polite.

"Text me your plans then and I'll text you mine."

"Done."

This one goes to the list of to-do things.

Bucket list.

Bucket list.

They hug, really tightly this time, cannot let go. Spencer thinks she was the one to initiate it, but it was more of a synchronized movement towards each other. Bucket list. She wants to see her again soon. She wants to visit her in California. She wants to see where she lives, what she does, where she studies, where she hates to work, how her meetings are, what her medication is, what's in her fridge, does India come to dinner. Make sure you come back, she mumbles into her ear instead, because, really, it's not clear when she'll take the plane. Okay, Emily mumbles back, and her voice is shaky, and probably it's just – they missed each other, but also they had too much to drink tonight. And all of those things Emily did, all of those changes she's going through, and also the things that happened before – silence – Spencer thinks she understands better now. So she can now strengthen the embrace.

In the taxi that drives her back home, she can't really think, all she sees is tonight.

She's careful to close the door not to wake Mark up. Lights are out and there's a quiet, regular form under the blankets in their bedroom. This is life. This is her life. Instead of getting under the covers with the warm body underneath, she goes to her study and opens her laptop. Let's just work. Let's just get things done. Let's just get this out of the way. Let's impress Tillman – more. Let's not take another blue one tomorrow – promise. Let's just live – it's not going to last forever. We know that. We all know that. It's a fact – the truth.

She kissed Emily out of pity, that night: she knows she did it because she wanted to help.

She also knows she liked it enough to repeat it.

Emily didn't get married.

She closes the laptop and goes to bed, knowing this is one of those nights when she will see the sun rise from her balcony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from "One More Try", song by George Michael.
> 
> The other two songs that are referenced in the chapter are: "I Get Along Without You Very Well", sung by Chet Baker, and "Purple Rain", classic song by Prince.


	6. The Truth Always Comes Out, Jason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate 3x04.

It's chilly outside and Spencer buttons up the beige trench coat as she walks.

The streets of Rosewood are empty tonight, every window casting a yellowish light: hints of life and people, having a nice evening in the protection of the walls that are called home. The streets are empty and also silent, but from some houses flows out the sound of TV, metalized voices, the screeches of a car braking and the bang of a shooting in a movie, too loud through one of the windows in the neighborhood, and she knows the person watching it is almost deaf. It's the house of old Mrs. Framesink, who once gave her a lollipop she wouldn't accept, a lollipop Alison took instead.

Life.

People.

All of them are liars, and what they call home is not safe; it's the streets, the air of the night that is safe – safer than home. She doesn't want to go home.

The air is fresh, it keeps her awake.

It makes her  _think_.

It makes her feel the pores of her skin opening up to receive whatever she can take and process. Cold makes her see things, connect ideas, design mental charts, diagrams, outlines, maps from one place to another place, start again, redraw the lines again, Garrett, Jenna, Melissa, who else; Mona is locked up at Radley, Hanna's been visiting her to gather information but has come back empty-handed, Hanna lacks a sharp set of teeth, Hanna is too compassionate – at least if and when she cares. Back to Garrett, his warnings and the secrets he keeps. Her mother, who is defending the man who murdered one of her best friends and the girl Emily loved (the  _other_  girl Emily  _truly_  loved) only to protect Melissa from public shame and outrage. Consequentially: Melissa. Not Melissa per se, but the information she and her friends have gained about Melissa. Melissa's lies. Melissa waving about a knife. Melissa as a pawn in A's game, in Mona's game, A has a name now and it's Mona, and Mona has a person who is helping her outside, New A, or maybe Mona was helping New A from the beginning and New A has always been Old A, but in any case this is the person who forced Emily to dig up Alison's grave, which is one the most wicked things Spencer can think of or imagine in evil's reign; Mona has a person or a whole army of helpers, Melissa  _was_  a part of the plan but swears she knows nothing more about this, as does Jenna, who drove Emily around in a car, that night, the night of the kiss and the non-vodka flask, the night of the disaster, and this proves Jenna is guilty enough even if she says Emily escaped the car in a panic. Bitch can see because Jenna's not blind, bitch's crazy and at Radley, bitch was never pregnant with a baby, or was for a very brief time and could not even tell her own  _sister_.

How much more bitching will they have to endure?

Spencer doesn't want to see Melissa tonight: Melissa is spiraling out of control, yelling, whining, childless, husbandless, boyfriendless – lying, regardless of everything, hoping to obtain  _what_  with more lies? A love that is  _wrong_. Romance with another psychopath. First Ian, then Garrett; Wren in the middle, and it's  _Wren_ , it's  _Spencer's_  Wren – the Wren who swore – charmingly, shamelessly, Britishly – he'd mixed up the sisters. If Spencer thinks about it, Melissa has made so many wrong choices and they all come down to the men she's decided to love. She used to have a bright future. Maybe not as bright as hers, but Melissa was brilliant. However, as much of a crazy liar Melissa has become, Spencer knows it's their parents' fault – their parents' lies, their parents' perpetual lies and double standards. Still – she can't believe Melissa is the one who took Emily to Alison's grave or who helped set that plan in motion. Even if Melissa lied about the pregnancy and about so many other things, there's no motive for her to attack Emily; any of them except  _her_ , the boyfriend stealer, but not Hanna and Aria and especially not  _Emily_. Melissa is not helping Mona. Spencer has to confront her friends – again – on this one. It must've been someone else – someone who lives here, who's guarded in one of these houses, pretending to be family to another someone who doesn't really care. The world is messed up. No, Rosewood is messed up. Her family is messed up. She is messed up too – genes working its logic on the bloodline down to Spencer, last of the line, at least until she has a child. If she ever does. If she makes it out alive. If she's luckier than Alison – and Maya. But she will be.

She takes a turn, the night breeze winds up her coat and her hair.

At least she has a bed.

Her bed is warm.

At least she has Toby.

She needs sleep to keep searching tomorrow. She needs to see Toby too, she needs to stop risking him. She needs to stop making mistakes. She needs to make it right with Emily.

Her energetic pace relaxes, the walk back to her house slower. She doesn't like the streets either. But she enjoys the lively, senses-alert walk – it makes her think easier thoughts.

"Out for an evening stroll?"

The voice has come from the DiLaurentis' and she immediately recognizes it as Jason's.

"Hey", she greets him, another victim of her family's lies.  _Their_  family. He's her brother now, always has been. "I'm just trying to clear my head."

He smiles, knowing what she means by that. "Rough night?"

"Rough two years."

She smiles back, looking around before deciding on staying with him for a while. Of all the Hastings, he is the only one she likes right now, and it's probably because officially he's not a Hastings at all. He didn't even get her father's smirk. He must have taken the blond locks and the sunny smile after his mother. He looks more like Alison than like her. It's weird.

"You know, I received like a million calls in the last few days, all swearing to have seen Alison's body here and there", he's talkative tonight, livelier than he's been, "and accusing everyone of digging her up from Obama to Mrs. Framesink to  _you_ , can you believe it?"

To this she offers sass, because between Obama and her it's a close tie. She doubts she's ever going to be proposed for the Nobel Peace Prize, though.

"Mrs. Framesink would make a great suspect."

"You bet", he answers with a grin, appreciating the joke, "but it's all just lies."

What else could it be? Lies, all the time, from everybody in this town. She told him it'd happen, it was no use offering money for clues, not here in Rosewood.

With a sigh she sits next to him on the stairs, hands deep in the pockets of the coat.

"You have  _no_  idea how much I'm looking forward to going to college next year", she tells him, finally someone she can talk to in the last week, not just a kindred spirit and someone able to tell her she's right without creating a big fuss about it but also a brother, a real  _kindred_ companion in all good and bad. "You know, I dream of the day I'm getting out of this place and away from all these  _dysfunctional_  people." She glances over at him to see his reaction, but he's just listening to her with curiosity. "Including Mrs. Framesink."

"Especially her and her TV."

"Exactly."

They both know they're talking about her parents – mostly.

"It does sound good, doesn't it?" He seems to have a soft spot for her just like she saves it for him. "But it doesn't work that way."

He's older, so he should know.

"How does it work then?"

"Trust me, Spencer, you can leave Rosewood but Rosewood will never leave you."

Her father's smirk breaks through her lips. "Sounds like a really bad line for a movie."

He shrugs, grinning wide. "Thanks." He can take her jokes. He's not like Melissa, and that's good, that is so good for her. She wishes she'd known him better – earlier than tonight.

"You should be writing scripts in Hollywood."

"Yeah, I might try that at some point."

"There's a poem that says the same, you know", she says, the soft spot growing softer as they speak. "I wasn't trying to make fun of what you're saying or anything."

"Your brain's always working, isn't it?"

It's her who grins now. "Pretty much all the time."

"What's the poem about?"

She thinks about the poem, trying to remember a concrete line.

"It's about ending up in the same place, no matter how far you wanna go start over with your life", she sums up, remembering the line  _you will always end up in this city_ , also  _the city will follow you_ ,  _there is no ship for you, there is no road_ ,  _you'll walk the same streets_ , over and over,and everything is always going to be a catastrophe and the barbarians are waiting for you at the gates, but she doesn't remember the correct order of the verses. She thinks about it hoping it's not Rosewood that defines her life as well as Jason's, and that Jason – and the poem – are wrong. Poetry is not life. Aria would disagree, maybe.

"Basically what I just said."

"Told you it said the same."

"Do you know it by heart? The poem."

He is so different from Alison it surprises her. Alison would never ask such a thing. But she shakes her head no. She doesn't know it by heart. She only knows Shakespeare by heart – that and all the suspects in town, every lead they've ever gotten in Alison's case, and Mona's lair, which she can reproduce piece by piece, angle by angle, hood by hood.

"So I can't expect to get out of Rosewood?", she asks. "That's a lot of encouragement."

"No, I didn't say that", he says. "I'm rooting for you to get out, but you gotta keep it close too, it's never gonna go away."

He's smiling, but his tone is serious and grave. A blond poet. Her brother.

"I didn't take you for a philosopher, Jason."

"It comes from years of alcohol abuse", he jokes too, and she realizes they share the same humor, so she laughs wholeheartedly. "I did get out, but then I had to come back."

Because Alison died.

She doesn't say it, though; she just nods. She hopes she doesn't have to come back; she hopes no one else has to die.

"Would you leave again?"

He hugs his knees, thinking about it. "As soon as Garrett gets what he deserves."

"Then you'll find peace."

She regrets it immediately after, and he frowns a little. "No." No, he will never find peace. Peace is for the blessed ones who don't have to live with the horrible death of a loved one. Peace is not for Jason. She promises herself, at this very moment, to help him with all she's got, not only for her but also for him. Garrett deserves jail; Jason deserves a life out of here.

His phone beeps, and he takes it out of his jacket.

"Sorry."

"Another one blaming Obama?"

He mutters no, quickly reading the text. "Listen, I gotta go", comes the announcement in a tired and distracted tone, "I gotta do a few things before going to bed."

"Sure", she gets up and stretches her legs, "me too."

"I'm driving up to meet my parents tomorrow morning."

Spencer remembers the Dilaurentis and knows they won't find peace either.

"Tell them I say hi."

She says it timidly – you never know how the DiLaurentis are going to react – but purposefully. Tell them I'm helping you with everything I can. If they love Jason, then it should be enough. She wants them to love Jason. Her father has never loved Jason.

"I will."

Turning towards the black shades of the canopies, she breathes in the chills, wondering – is she going back home now?

She hears Jason calling out her name and so she looks back at him.

"I'm withdrawing the reward", he confirms what she already understood, "I think you should know you were right."

She gives a grateful, knowing smile, because she knew – but it's nice to  _know_  like this.

"Thanks for telling me."

After a nod of mutual understanding, he looks unsettled, troubled. "Do you think we'll ever get somewhere with this?"

"Somewhere like Rosewood?" She gives it a sarcastic turn. "Or somewhere  _better_?" She thought they'd agreed on the impossibility of getting somewhere better, but maybe she convinced him. Maybe she's right again.

"Somewhere like the truth."

The truth.

Life and all the lies and people. But yes, they are going to get there, of this she is sure.

"Truth always comes out, Jason", she answers as if she's the one writing the bad script right now, "one way or another." It's a promise. It's a fact too. Look at Melissa now.

His smirk is not arrogant – only melancholic. "And what way is that?"

Oh, if she had an answer for it… She doesn't, so she shrugs. "Someway."

"You don't know that, huh?"

"There's no poem about it."

He laughs. "Right." He gets her jokes. It makes her feel different – almost happy – included.

They offer each other a smile and she leaves him opening the front door.

Her brother, the poet.

Her brother, a stranger she's getting to know.

It's a promise for you, Jason, it's a promise for me too.

It's a promise for Emily.

Garrett has to pay for everything he's done.

Instead of crossing the street to her parents – lights on in her mother's study and up in Melissa's bedroom – Spencer keeps walking down the road. Perhaps the truth should come out if she were able to bring it out herself. Perhaps she should talk to Toby and tell him what has been going on. Everything about Alison's grave – but that would expose Emily as much as them – and the rest. She has been trying to overcompensate with extra sweetness for a couple of days, but there's a distinctive feeling that she's also keeping her distance from him, holding herself back. It's guilt. It's – honestly – the inconvenience of a guilty conscience. It's deciding how to make it right when you've already made it wrong. It's keeping him in the dark – it's lying to him about A, about the rest, about Emily too.

Truth always comes out.

Truth always comes out.

Look at Melissa now.

Good or bad, it always comes out, it's going to happen someway, someday.

She takes her phone – no new texts from A – and calls Toby, but it goes straight to voicemail. Saved by time. Saved by time. She wasn't going to tell the truth yet.

She can't risk him.

Toby is warm; Toby is right.

He's not a bed yet – oh, the image – but he could be, he is going to be.

Emily is keeping her distance too – and she from her. They've been working together on Melissa; well, Emily has been working with Hanna and Aria on Melissa, but other than that they have tried to stay cool. However, it's temporary, it's also awkward – Spencer can see the sadness in Emily's eyes, as well as the anger – she's still upset, she's still disagreeing – and all the rest – Maya who is dead, Alison's grave, evil happening to her,  _guilt_  happening to her, and Toby who is Emily's greatest friend, everything tangled together in this betrayal, this crime of enormous proportions just because they shared a kiss – two kisses – two kisses that have nothing to do with a  _real_ crime. Emily will never find peace. It hits Spencer with horror – the thought of it – once again. It's worse than with Jason. It scares her even more.

She walks decidedly to Emily's house.

The street is deserted and dim when a car slows down next to her. Lowering her body to see who it is – her heart races up but she's not scared – she grasps the light chestnut of Detective Wilden's head. He turns on the emergency police light, she's guessing the intention is to scare her or to pressure her, and now she's even less scared than a second ago.

Sass.

"Is there a problem, Detective?"

His window slides down, intermittent blue bathing both of their faces.

"How far away is your parents' lake house?"

His voice sounds mellow, like an animal trap, but she's not giving anything away. He's so obnoxiously easy to read it's not even funny. If he had proof they'd be in jail (again).

"Why?"

"Just curious."

Curiosity killed the cat, Detective.

"You can check that in a map and do your math", Spencer answers calmly, it's all about sass, it's self-control and a hand of steel that will play your cards, "or you can just go and learn from experience, I think it's supposed to help, you know, cause it's  _science_."

His teeth shine in the dark. "Maybe your friends will know how to answer."

"I don't see how, it's normally me who drives them there."

"You're walking to one of your friends' houses, right?", he dares. "It's not Hanna, it's the other one, what's her name? Not the really short one either, no, cause she lives the other way." He shakes his chestnut head. "It's the swimmer."

Rage starts to take power, but she keeps it close and at bay.

"Emily Fields."

"Right, Fields", he confirms, it's her street already and he knows. "The girl with the dead girlfriend. Maybe she'll know how to answer, don't you think?"

"Maybe you should ask her yourself", Spencer answers dryly, "if you manage to get her parents' consent."

"Maybe I'll do that."

Maybe I'll rip off your head and feed it to the wolves.

"Yeah, you can try that", she smiles as if a smile could strangle him, "but you should probably know she's not that good with directions, Detective."

"It's only you who's good with that, right?"

"Exactly."

There's a long stare of defiance before the car speeds up in the street. This city is rotten. This city is so rotten it's not even funny, but this city is not so easy to read.

"Bastard."

She feels better after the insult, wondering if she should tell Emily and the others about the incident. Probably not. Wilden has nothing on them, not yet. She has other things to say.

It's a fifteen minute walk to Emily that gives her time to panic a little, because what is she going to say in  _words_  after walking out in secret and silence six days ago?

It's wrong.

It's not a crime.

And I'm sorry.

She rings the bell and Mrs. Fields seems surprised to see her so late but tells her to wait. Emily's long, sleepy lashes peek out of the door a minute later, greeting her with the softness of her chocolate gaze. She steps out and closes the door, discreet as usual, questioning, worried even, and she is the first one to talk when she asks if Spencer is okay.

"Are you okay? Did something else happen?"

Things keep happening to them, Detective Wilden just tried to scare her, but Spencer says yes, she is perfectly fine, she was just walking and ended up here.

You'll walk the same streets, you'll knock on the same doors –  _this_  door.

"Did you talk to Melissa again?", Emily questions, because that's all they've been talking about in the last few days. "Or to your mom?" This one seems filled with more tension. Emily can't still come to terms with the fact that Veronica Hastings is defending Maya's murderer.

"Not yet."

Her family always keeps her in the dark – constantly.

Emily purses her lips. "We'll find out", she assures, almost robotically, but also strangely convinced (angrily, unworldly, it's too much for her). "It's just a matter of time."

It's just a matter of time before the truth comes out.

"We will", Spencer repeats, "truth always comes out."

"I hope it doesn't come out with an anonymous text."

"But that wouldn't be the truth."

A light, the kind of light that means she's thinking about it and also blaming herself, crosses Emily's face. "Maybe we should start with ourselves."

"Maybe we should start with everyone who is trying to hurt us."

Emily nods, mumbles yes, doesn't even try to fight it, ever since they all convinced her to stop talking about going to the police to  _confess_  to something she hasn't even really done.

"How is tonight going?"

"We just had dinner", Emily says, "did you have dinner yet?"

"Not yet."

Not yet. Everything – not yet.

"You can eat here", Emily offers, "there's some leftovers that…"

"Don't worry."

"Okay."

"I'm going home now."

Home now.

"Okay."

Not yet.

Not yet.

Emily is wearing a white T-shirt under her jacket that says  _I walked with a zombie_. The classic horror movie, Spencer thinks, the black and white zombie movie, and she doubts Emily watched that with Hanna although they're both great fans of horror movies. Somehow she can't picture Hanna watching an old classic film. A hand is extended, trying to catch something (probably a body to rip apart and feed itself on it, isn't that what zombies do?). The hand only has four fingers. It's weird – in a spooky way – but modern, as in retro – it kind of rocks under the leather jacket, it makes Emily look so badass and like a rebel.

A rebel. A zombie rebel, broken, broken.

"That t-shirt's cool", Spencer points out, trying to sound light. "Never saw it, though." She means the movie.

"It's Maya's."

Oh.

Maya was badass. She smoke weed too. Had a distinctive sense of humor. Spencer didn't know she was into old horror films. Zombie hands and Maya, that's news, zombie rebels.

"That's… it's a cool t-shirt."

Even if Spencer is basically repeating herself, Emily smiles – it's so sweet, so dreamy, Spencer hasn't seen a smile like that in a long time – in months. Maya brings out the smile.

"Her family sent it to me."

"You finally saw them?"

"Her cousin", Emily explains. "They gave him a package for me."

Spencer is annoyed – she can't say it – with Maya's family for not getting in touch with Emily. Not even for a service, a mass, a tribute. She knows Emily believes in God.

"That's great."

Emily offers a nod and walks a couple of steps in her direction – a good sign. "I'm gonna write them a thank-you letter", she says, hesitantly, "and you know, just what I've… you know, everything else."

Everything else she needs to say to them.

"I'm glad you got in touch with her cousin."

"It was him", Emily answers, "I mean he was the one to get in touch with me."

"That's better." It shows interest on his part. It's good. It's for Emily.

"He's studying at Hollis."

Oh.

"What is he studying?"

Emily makes a face, wondering, as if she's trying to remember. "I'm not really sure", she finally admits. "We just talked about Maya."

Of course.

"I might've met him when I was there this summer", Spencer says, although she doesn't remember any St. Germain, and she would have definitely realized it. "If he's…"

"No", Emily denies, "he wasn't there this summer, he just got here."

"Well, maybe he can talk to me about some of the professors", Spencer doesn't really believe it, it's not like she actually needs anyone to contact a professor or anything, she has her own resources and she's not planning on going to Hollis, but this seems a good way to make the conversation flow, "or maybe he can give me some advice about the courses."

"Weren't you applying to UPenn?"

"Sure", Spencer concedes, "but you never know where you're gonna end up", you'll end up in this city, you'll arrive here, these streets are yours, "and Hollis has a good program." Hollis does not have a good program. Not for her. And she doesn't want to stay in Rosewood.

Emily seems pleased with the answer, though. But she says, instead, because it's Emily and Emily knows her too well: "You're gonna get into a much better program, Spencer."

Spencer shrugs. "I know."

"I'll ask him anyway", it's a promise Emily makes to her, "for you."

"Thanks."

They fall into a silence – it's not exactly comfortable, it's not awkward either – and there's this little smile, it's not really a smile, it's more of a ghost, it's a zombie ghost.

"Emily", Spencer starts, "we should talk."

Emily's face changes, it turns worried, sad. "Yeah, we should." The frown intensifies.

"It doesn't have to be tonight if you don't want to."

"No, it's fine, we do have to talk."

It's probably been on Emily's mind too.

"Wanna go for a walk with me?"

She doesn't want to talk out here in the porch where Mrs. Fields could hear them. She doesn't need Mrs. Fields, who is so protective and, well, uptight, caring (warm too), listening to the confession that Spencer Hastings kissed her daughter in a moment – two moments – of… she doesn't know what they were or how to define them. Intense – that was what they were. Solidary. Pure. Strange. Unworldly – but real. Beyond that – she can't say for sure.

"I can't go far", Emily warns, already in motion, "I promised my mom I'd help with the dishes."

"Five minutes."

They walk, their steps quiet on the road.

When they've already reached a prudent distance from Emily's porch, Spencer voices it aloud: "I'm sorry", she says, words precise and clear; then: "about the other day."

"Me too."

The amount of apologies they have said in the last week… It exceeds everything else they've said to each other up until this moment. It shouldn't be this way.

"I'm sorry I walked out on you like that."

"I was yelling at you."

It wasn't exactly yelling (not like Melissa yells), but Spencer had never seen Emily so upset in her life. Not at her. Not when she was the cause. But she's not the cause – entirely. She's not helping, though. She's not helping Emily – and it's awful – the worst.

"I don't want you to be upset about this", Spencer continues, "and I know you've been upset, so I just want you to know there's nothing that I won't do to fix this."

Emily crosses her arms, gazes down to her feet, then up again, determined. Spencer can tell because, when Emily gets determined, her eyes turn darker, her chin rises, her body seems ready to dive in, electric, muscular. The weakest link is strong; but she's broken now.

"You said you didn't regret it."

"I don't."

"Spencer, you don't even  _like_  girls."

"This has nothing to do with me or you liking girls, Emily", Spencer argues, "this is  _different_."

Emily huffs, clearly unhappy with the answer. "Well, I do like girls", she counters, "I  _am_  gay, Spencer, and I just… I don't get it."

"I don't see it as a normal kiss."

That sounds bad. It's not what she means, but the words are out and Emily's eyes widen.

"Great."

"No, that's not what I meant, it's…"

"I don't care what you meant", Emily angers out, "because you're right, it's not normal, it's not, I told you it's not."

Spencer fights the urge to discuss the fact that the kiss was  _never_  conceived as a pity kiss. It wasn't even conceived. It was just out there – it came out like a raw shot out of a lip-gun, but soft, silky, both times, the second time she saw it coming and it was still a surprise when she moved to kiss Emily. She's given it some thought and it's a little clearer now. It's…

"Look, it just happened, okay?", she says. "It's not gonna come between us."

"It is already coming between us, Spencer."

"No, it's  _not_."

Emily softens up. Spencer's certainty, Spencer's sass can produce this effect. She just needs to put it to good use.

"I love Maya", Emily assures as if it needs more confirmation, Maya is here for her and she is here for Maya, and Maya cannot tolerate to be cheated on, zombie hands, zombie dreams, "and I don't even wanna think about anyone else, so it's wrong any way you look at it."

Spencer tries to instill patience into her breathing. "I know you love Maya." She has to do a better job with this. If the problem is regret, then she has to spell it out. "Let me rephrase it. I regret doing it because it's hurting you and it can hurt Toby. Is that better?"

"It doesn't change anything", Emily deadpans, but the rephrasing has appeased her anyway. "It's also my fault", she says, guilt happening to her. "I just…"

"It's no one's fault", Spencer cuts in, because she is not going to tolerate guilt about this, "it happened,  _fine_ , but we're friends, we're  _always_ gonna be friends, like it or not, Emily."

Emily smiles despite herself. "Like it or not?"

"You know what I mean."

"I like being your friend", she says, "and that's why I don't like this."

"You do realize that's a strange sentence, right?"

They both smile. It's nervous.

"You know what I mean too."

"What do you need from me?", Spencer fires softly, shot gun, shot gun with words. "Just tell me and I'll give it to you."

A promise. It seems grand, but it's not. It's just them.

Emily wavers, hesitant, it lasts only a second. "I need you to be my friend", she says slowly, "I need you to be you, the person you are, and I… I don't want to like kissing you."

So she likes it.

It feels as if someone good-looking,  _extremely_  good-looking in this case, called Spencer pretty, although she can't exactly glow in pride right now.

"I like being your friend too." Choosing this is safer than getting into Emily actually liking it and calling her pretty. "A kiss is not gonna change that either for you or for me, Emily."

Emily's fingers grip the T-shirt in a nervous gesture. "Why did you kiss me?"

"I can't exactly explain why."

"But we weren't drunk this time."

"It's… I don't have an explanation."

"You don't?"

"Em, I don't have an answer for everything."

"That is not even true!"

Emily is getting upset again. But the explanation is: Emily was expecting to be kissed. Spencer had said she wasn't sorry – and she wasn't, she isn't, which doesn't mean anything except she doesn't look back, she doesn't take anything back, right or wrong, good or bad; and also, perhaps, it means that she wanted to kiss Emily, that she loves Emily in a way she can't properly put out in normal words, especially now, these days, lately, not only that night or the other day but every day and every night after Maya was found dead. And so the kiss did happen. But she can't say this because Emily won't take it, Emily is not ready to take it, and perhaps Spencer is not ready to take it either in case she can actually utter the words.

"It's complicated", like in Facebook, "and you kissed my hand", it's lame, like in Facebook, it's the stupidest explanation ever. "So…"

Emily turns scarlet, though, because it seems plausible for her.

Kiss a hand, shoot the gun.

"You're right."

"It's  _okay_ ", Spencer raises her voice, "it really  _is_  okay."

"No, it's  _not_  okay."

"I know that." Spencer knows what Emily means: it means the kiss is not helping Emily, plus it  _is_  cheating on Toby. But she's learned her lesson. Bitch can cheat. Bitch can cheat, and it's her,  _she_  can  _cheat_. "I won't do it again, I need you to trust me, Emily."

"I've always trusted you."

"Yes, but I also need you to know you can always count on me."

Emily blinks – tears menacing. "You can count on me too", a pause, a pause because she's fighting the tears that want to come out, "even now, Spencer, even if I…"

"You what?"

"I'm a mess, and…"

"We're both a mess", Spencer dictates, although it's a very different mess, "so can we please stop being upset with each other?"

There's a nod, another yes is mumbled, and they are hugging again – Emily starts it, thank god, and there's no kiss this time, no one pulls the trigger, thank god – it goes away quickly.

No kiss.

No trigger this time, it flies so fast it's almost untouchable, unbreathable – too fast. It's over. Sanity has been restored, the universe is now in order, friendship is friendship, it is a sane, profound bond. They stare at each other, and Emily's expression appears to be more serene.

"What about Toby?", Emily asks. "Are you telling him?"

The triangle. In a way, Spencer used to think this was the best that had ever happened to her. Now it's almost smothering and she wants to push out, it feels strangled.

"Emily, I won't tell him anything that can risk your friendship with him."

"It's better if he knows the truth", Emily argues, "and you can say it was me who…"

"But that wouldn't be the truth."

Emily blinks, another light crossing her face. She's thinking about it; she is blaming herself.

"He does know I'm not acting right", she fights, "he knows I've been drinking and I'm not all right, Spencer."

"Listen, it's not gonna happen now, okay?", Spencer cuts off, because lying to him is a necessary evil, at least until New A is done with, and it's safer too – for him. "It's not like I can even tell him about everything else right now, so it's easier this way, I'm not gonna tell him about a kiss when I can't tell him the rest that's going on with us."

They're not party girls sharing stupid experimental kisses. They're under so much stress.

"What if he finds out?"

"It's not like we're party girls sharing stupid kisses cause we drank too much."

Emily high-pitches a little, her question unanswered. "But what if he finds out?" On repeat.

"I'll tell him we were drunk", she's thought about this, "and confused, that's it."

"Are you sure?"

"I am absolutely sure."

Absolutely.

"Just let me know when you're ready to talk to him so I can help."

"I will let you know so you can immolate in front of him", Spencer assures, rolling her eyes, "and blame yourself for every bad thing that has ever happened in this town that is completely full of… rats and bitches and liars and scum of all types."

A dance takes place: Emily rolls her eyes too. The action resembles the old Emily.

"I'm serious."

Yes, she's serious – that's the problem. Time to change the subject.

"So what's this guy's name?", Spencer asks with curiosity. "Maya's cousin."

"Nate."

"Can I trust him?", she jokes. "Or should I check his criminal record?"

A glare now. Old Emily. This guy Nate – zombie Maya – is bringing her back, apparently. Now, if there were more smiles… maybe she could really start trusting this guy's power. If Emily could laugh… if Spencer could believe Emily can laugh, but maybe she won't.

"He's a really nice guy."

Spencer smiles in reassurance. "That's great."

"You should meet him."

"You should introduce him to me."

"So you can go to Hollis and talk to the professors there."

"Exactly."

They are all right.

They are all right.

Aren't they?

Their five minutes are long gone and Emily has to go back home to help her mother, and so they say goodbye, see you tomorrow. They are all right. They are going to be all right.

Spencer walks all the way back – backwards – streets, the same streets, always the same.

This small corner of the world.

Detective Wilden's car is parked near her house, but there's no sign of him inside – or around – she hopes he's not bothering Jason now.

Rats.

Bitches.

Only a pure soul, and she's lying to him.

This city is rotten, this city is bad. But this city is all she still has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Spencer mentions is "The City", by Constantine Cavafy.


	7. The Unicorn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aude University is a fictional university. The courses depicted are also fictional. My apologies for all inaccuracies and mistakes.

It is a ray of the sun breaking through the clouds of the afternoon that forces Emily to realize spring is coming with its full force of change and renewal.

She is sitting on the grass, under a tree, taking a bite of a tuna salad sandwich, when she feels the need to strip off of her jacket and show her nude skin to the fresh new season. Spring is here. She welcomes it with her arms and a smile. For a moment, she thinks of New York and wonders if it's still so cold there, if the sun keeps barely appearing as a reflection in the next building or if it's conquered only once you're up in the roof or out in the balcony, if the snow is stripping off of a blanket to show what is hidden under, the grass, although what can she find in New York except traffic and cement and vertiginous heights? Not even snow. There is grass in Central Park now, she supposes, but Central Park, with all its fame and its enormous size, has always looked like a momentary relief to the life in the real city war NYC represents. Fake. Not plastic fake, but still – fake. A deceitful distraction. A breather. The thought barely lingers, almost winking at her with a name, but before she can grab it and shake it loose she has to run to her next class with Professor Dawkins, and so she gulps down the remnants of the sandwich along with a bottle of Gatorade to give herself the proper attitude and the energy necessary to endure the demands of college at 27.

In class, Professor Dawkins talks about matters that have nothing to do with either the life of the mind or the nature of behavior. It's a class dedicated to "The Origins of Human Communication" (PSY 155), a prerequisite to get the Psychology degree in Aude, but Dawkins starts talking about the origins of language and ends up in poetry, love and the law.

Go figure.

Professors are like that. They link ideas. Ideas have a structure.

The name appears now, devoid of all that is seasonal. It winks in Emily's direction.

Spencer Hastings.

Spencer had said, that night in February, that teaching was fun, and Emily had detected a tone of underlying frustration that felt awkwardly (yet naturally) familiar, so Emily imagines Spencer listening to the Professor by her side; their eyes meet, and Emily smiles before looking down to the wrist quickly moving over the notepad; it's high-school again; then she imagines Spencer teaching the class, Professor Hastings in flesh and bone, tall on the platform, the blazer hanging down the chair a couple of feet away, a disposition that seems to always propel her forward and keep her in the move; her shorter hair is clipped elegantly, but it's just a clip from curling up wild; she's trying to put limits to a nature uncontrolled. New York. Wind blows. Emily loved the distinctive vindication of the haircut, although it took some getting used to. It's more professional, Spencer said: mature. All grown-up. But she was afraid she would look younger, and Emily reassured her she was looking just fine. Short or long, it's electric, as Spencer herself: Spencer, a figment of Emily's mind, knowledgeable and young, magnetic with her own flair and maybe enamored of it, commanding the students to pay attention, making sure they understand what she says. Professor Hastings. It would make sense. It would, and concern storms up Emily's chest, not making it up to her head, not quite, because she can't stop to think about it now.

She could see her here, yes. She is unsure if she should tell her, but anyway she runs at the end of the class, making her way to the door in the crowd of younger students.

"Ms. Fields", she hears after her, "do you have a sec?"

Professor Dawkins is talking to her. She trembles, but puts on her best smile.

"Yes, of course."

The Professor returns a small smile and reaches down a stack of papers. After a long moment of silence and paper redistribution, the Professor seems confidently embarrassed.

"Sorry", she apologizes, although Emily doesn't know about what yet, "I thought I had it with me."

Emily doesn't reply right away. Is this a bad grade?

"It's fine."

Her face has probably given her away, shadowed by her own embarrassment, because the Professor is quick to dismiss the empty observation with a waver of her hand.

"Oh, no, don't worry, your paper was fine."

Emily breathes, relieved. "Yes. Thank you."

The paper on Rousseau's theory of communication and its effects on primary education was crappy, but effective. She's learned how to be verbose, academic, argumentative. It's like swimming long-distance: all it takes is a proper administration of her recourses, a stretch and a mental conviction that there is a finish line. She swam long-distance while she was in The Netherlands, some years ago, on a semester she dedicated to partying, swimming and travelling. She even smoked weed under a strange feeling of pleasure and nostalgia for what had been lost. Maya had been lost. It had been the first time she'd smoked weed ever since that summer afternoon in Rosewood, when Maya offered it to her, sneaky eyes, seductive breath of life, a chance to get away. Maya.

But Maya was dead. Everybody was dead.

"I've been thinking…", the Professor trails off, "you said you wanted to go into Child?"

"Yes."

"But you're not taking Psychopathology in the Early Development of the Child and the Adolescent?"

"Not yet."

She was planning to take it maybe next year. Or the year after.

"You have to."

All Professors are like that. They speak crudely to the point. Knowledge has a structure.

"I was hoping to do it next year, I mean, I'm still taking some introductory courses, so I'm not even sure I…"

"Why next year when it's a must?"

"I'm…"

Still taking introductory courses. Working. Busy. Not ready. Not  _allowed_  to (yet). There is something else behind the question, though, so she shuts up.

"Ms. Fields", Wisdom starts, absorbing the air around Emily, "you can't reduce yourself to happy children and to an idealistic education. I mean, obviously you  _can_  do that if you want to go into education per se, but not otherwise."

Per se.

"I know."

"Do you want to go into education?"

"No."

Rousseau is just a cover-up, an essay-topic. She doesn't want to be a teacher.

"Take the class as soon as you can", the Professor orders sternly. "I know Professor Kerley and he's splendid, and you should really talk to him."

"Okay, I will."

Dawkins examines Emily under her round thick lenses.

"Ms. Fields", she says again after a second of careful examination, "it's not so common to find someone like you doing this", there's no explanation about what being like Emily Fields is exactly, "and doing it must take sacrifice and dedication, as well as a firm sense of self."

Emily nods.

"Talk to Professor Kerley."

Her voice is crystalline when she hears herself talk. "Of course, I promise you I will." She knows how to sell herself out, make promises to happy customers, and with a luminous little smile, the sun on her face shines as she says thank you for taking so much interest in me, and Professor Dawkins smiles back ruthlessly, with an ominous sense of patience, and tells her she's already told Professor Kerley about Emily and he is waiting for her visit.

Emily leaves, feeling a little flustered, pushed, under pressure.

Is this how Spencer feels?

(Except Spencer is not back in college.)

She stops in the restroom, locking herself up in one of the stalls. Professor Dawkins is her orientation guide. She talked to her when she had just started the adventure, and Emily guesses that is the reason behind the personal interest she has taken in her. Project Emily Fields. There must be something they see in her. It must be there. But what is it? She feels it too – some days. It's what drove her here in the first place. A firm sense of self. Orientation. Administration. Sacrifice. She's not ready. She's breathing too hard.

A strange force drives her to Professor Kerley's office. It's spring.

Perhaps she's ready to change.

The door is closed and no one answers after she softly knocks, so she inspects the office hours. She's late for 10 minutes. Maybe spring will happen tomorrow, or maybe this week.

She is so relieved.

"Hello?"

A masculine voice is turning the corner of the hallway, a cup of coffee in his hands.

"Professor Kerley?"

"By all means."

So this is how spring feels like. Emily wonders if flowers also feel rushed out and caught.

She smiles – again – and he returns it, and it's always the same effect.

All this time she's avoided everything that remotely resembles crime, criminal psychology, pathological whateverism, even shadiness, most importantly shadiness: like the one Toby had before she decided he was a friend, like the one everybody had, growing up in Rosewood, in the past, every time Spencer decided on the Enemy of the Week. The kind of thing that makes her endlessly doubt. That's shadiness, in Emily's opinion. The kind of thing about which she can never be sure and she can't decide, yes or no, this or that, friend or enemy or in between, guilty or not, should or shouldn't. She doesn't want to explore the concept and to catalogue a person as a type. She's not sure she can deal with the part of psychology that reduces people – especially children – to pathological types. Yet, she's here. A wannabe psych major. Potential therapist. Shadiness, crime, Spencer, Toby, Melissa, Mona, Hanna, Maya, Lyndon James, Alison, Paige, Aria, Jason, Rosewood as a whole, the universe,  _everybody_ , pathological behavior in childhood and adolescence, those are at the end of the tunnel and she understands that if she wants to become a therapist is because she needs to cope with the reality of an overwhelming, inescapable pain that children are not equipped to fight on their own. There must be someone who helps them. Someone must fight for them, or at least give them the right weapons. She doesn't want to be like Dr. Sullivan. She doesn't want to be like anyone she knew when she was in high school, trapped in her own life of crime. She doesn't want to think about Rosewood, or about Dr. Kerley, but here she stands in front of him on a Wednesday afternoon, and the weather is changing.

He lets her in the office and they exchange introductions.

"So what is it that interests you about the class?"

"The main reason is I need it to specialize in Child Psych", honestly it is the truth, and so she says it shyly, earnestly too, "but there's also the fact that Professor Dawkins and everyone in the field says you're brilliant."

"Professor Dawkins has good expectations for you", he confirms, choosing to avoid the ego path, "apparently."

"I'm very grateful to her."

"Of course", he agrees, and he stares at her so acutely that she thinks he is looking right into her shit, carcasses of polite smiles decomposing and giving way to the truth, the firm self that keeps searching for an answer to the child still living inside her, the firm self that's shaking nude. "It's so early for you, though, since you just started."

"I know", Emily  _knows_ , although it would make more sense to say it's so  _late_  for her, "but I'm taking this very seriously, Dr. Kerley."

"You don't seem that enthusiastic about my class, if you allow me to tell you."

"I'm interested", she cautiously replies, "just not overly enthusiastic about child criminality."

He shakes his head in what looks like approval. "It's an ugly part of the profession, for sure."

"That's what I mean."

"Sure, but you need to face it sooner or later, and to understand it."

"I know it has to be very useful as a tool for a therapist."

" _Absolutely_  necessary."

Spencer would handle this situation much better. Emily feels like escaping the office, a feeling she still gets in the face of certain forms of authority.

But she offers another reassuring nod.

"You'll need it every time you're in a room with someone who's a young age", he continues, "and there's nothing more important than establishing the right diagnosis in a clinical case."

"I agree."

"Perhaps", he offers a sarcastic, disinterested twist of his lips, "you'd be more comfortable exercising your current profession, but the therapist needs to see the mind as it is, without sentiment of any kind."

The current profession.

"I understand this job is not about feeling comfortable."

"It certainly isn't", he smiles, letting her know that she's got it right. "It's also not about feeling anything."

Is he bluffing?

"But empathy is a useful tool too, right?"

He sighs, as if all the patience in the world is needed. Professors have no time for newbies.

"Sentiment is overrated."

She returns his blue gaze calmly.

"Well, you're the expert, and I'm ready to learn."

He smiles widely now. "You will be the expert too", he encourages, "but for a person like you it's important to learn to use empathy in the therapy session so it can become productive and not an unfortunate waste of the patient's time and of your own emotions."

For a person like you.

"Do you think that would be the case?", she asks a little boldly, even though it's clear he's read into her soul. "Is that why you're telling me?"

Polite boldness seems to please him.

"Don't take it personally, I tell all my students", he assures, "because most of them come here with the wrong idea of wanting to help other people, especially kids."

"So we're not supposed to help them?"

"But you  _are_  going to help them", he picks up the dare, "only once you empty yourself of prejudice and sentiment about your own role in the process."

"Why do you think I'd be doing that, if you don't mind my question?"

His gaze traces the spine of a book that lies open on the table.

"The world's not in black and white."

"Excuse me?"

"The world's not in black and white", he repeats, the blue gaze back in place right into hers, "it has many colors, and the mind does too." Pausing to check her puzzled expression, he continues: "I'd worry if that wasn't your intention, Ms. Fields, isn't that your ultimate goal?"

"Yes", she admits, "it is."

She is not different from everybody else. All these students, coming and going every academic year with the wrong idea, the prejudice, the sentiment of wanting to  _help_. Fools.

"The mind has many colors", he repeats, sitting down on the armchair and inviting her to do the same with a quick sign of the hand, "and by that I mean we are all part of the same spectrum, if you know what I mean."

She doesn't.

But she sits down because, for some reason, he is interested in her, almost as interested as Professor Dawkins, who is probably the person who's gotten him interested in the first place.

When she leaves he makes sure to tell her that empathy – he seems to know this particularly about her – will be an essential tool in her future therapeutic work, but one that will need to be tamed,  _like an animal_ , he adds,  _like a dog inside the house or a horse in the porch_ , if she really wants to help people. Help people. Help again.

Professors talk so much.

She closes the door, thinking about how tired of fighting crime Spencer looked the last night they saw each other in New York. Perhaps it's time to invite her to LA and the sun.

Professor Hastings.

Everything is clearer after she stops at a local shop to buy ice-cream. She steals a lick on her way back to the car, slowly working on its creamy slide with the tip of her finger. Cookie Dough today. Other times it will be Belgian Chocolate. Strawberry Cheesecake. Dulce de Leche and Banana. Coconut. She remembers Paige, who loved Coconut beyond the imaginable. A car hoots, the guy observing the movement of her finger with what she reads as a mixture of lust and irritation. She sends an annoyed glance in return and covers the ice-cream. India has texted to say she's coming tonight, so Emily also stops at a Thai place where they like to get take-away. Pad-Thai. Easy life. By 8 she's already home, and when she takes the key out of her purse she hears the phone ring inside it.

"Mom?"

She has to separate the phone from her ear because her mom's voice is so loud.

"Honey, are you home?"

"Just getting there", is the answer when the door finally gives way. "How're you feeling?"

Every day since her mother got sick there is a phone call. Every day Emily asks the same question, panic creeping up as if it were the first time she's hearing her mother might not feel so well. Everybody is not dead. Her mother is not dead. She has to remember this.

The cat meows. It's the daily routine.

"Hey, beauty", Emily greets back, crouching to pet the arched back. "So how're you feeling, mom?"

Instead of telling her how she's feeling in detail, because she swears she's feeling perfectly fine after the last surgery, Pam Fields tells the story of a neighbor her dad found naked in the street in the middle of the night.

"And he didn't call the police, of course, but can you believe it?"

"It's pretty weird, he was probably drunk."

"He  _was_  drunk, honey", her mother replies in a higher tone, "a man like that, he must've drunk the whole bar."

"And what did he say?"

"He couldn't even talk about it."

"Yeah, no wonder."

"No, he basically had lost the ability to speak, Emily, it's not that he's ashamed or anything."

"How do you know that?"

"He's still drinking, he's going to destroy his liver."

Livers are her mother's latest concern.

"Well…"

"He drinks alone at his house, maybe you could talk to him when you come."

Emily blinks. "Me?"

"Well, you're a counselor now, maybe he needs therapy, Emily. And we can't have a naked man running around the house at night."

She feels the impulse to laugh, but instead she rolls her eyes.

"I'm not a therapist yet, mom."

"I know, honey, but he used to be a good man."

"Okay, maybe…" She feels weird. Maybe she shouldn't laugh at the image of a naked mad running around her parents' house. Maybe this man is a good man who needs real help. It sounds like it. Maybe he's just crazy. Maybe he was drugged by someone else. Maybe he's not who he says he is. There are so many possibilities. So many colors. "I can try, I don't know, or we can find someone he can talk to, you know, someone professional about this."

Someone professional with the right tools who will look clinically into his mind.

No sentiment.

Empathy tamed into place, almost like Spencer's hair, like an animal, like the horse in the porch. We're all part of the same spectrum. New York. LA. She looks at Psy at her feet.

"Good idea."

They keep talking about her mother's literary club and her father's poker nights, and when they finally hung up Emily kneels down again to pet Psy.

"We're all part of the same spectrum, you know?"

Psy meows in agreement.

"Does that mean our minds should connect?"

Another meow.

"Sorry, am I being too empathic for you?"

The cat sends her an indifferent glance this time, paw touching the plate in demand of food, and so Emily takes out the fodder. If the spectrum is food, then it's simple to comprehend.

She is hungry too.

India arrives half an hour later when the Pad Thai is already cold. They heat it up in the stove because India is certain the stove keeps the real flavors and spices of the food instead of killing them, and meanwhile they decide to make a salad, but they end up heating themselves up on the couch. They have quick, urgent sex. By the time they finish, the Pad Thai is simply tepid like Emily's soul. They eat, it's good. They have sex again.

Emily closes her eyes, enjoying the placid sensation of a full stomach and a warm body by her side.

It's spring.

LA.

Soon it will be the summer.

"Haiti,  _mom pays_ ", India starts to hum in a soft voice, all sorts of wrong French in Emily's ears, " _ma familie_  set me free…"

A pause makes Emily open her eyes to observe her.

"Since when do you speak French?"

"Since I'm an English major", India replies smugly, as if it's obvious, and then starts to declaim in more dubious French: " _ma jeunesse ne fut qun tenébraux storm, through which a dazzling sun would shoot…_ and you know, the rest."

"That's cheating."

"I know both versions!"

"What's that anyway?"

"It's Baudelaire", India glares, and it's a sin for her to live without knowing poetry. Literature is life. Music is life. "And the other one was Arcade Fire."

"Same person?"

India smacks her arm in retaliation, and Emily laughs, feeling so much more relaxed.

"It's called  _Haiti_."

"I know the song."

She obviously knows it, because how couldn't she?  _Tous les morts-nés forment une armée_.

"It's an old song."

" _Very_  old."

"Very old music is better."

"Everything very old is better."

"You know what?" India's eyes sparkle as she rolls over on top of her. Auburn prickles. "I wanna go to Haiti with you, and you wanna go to India with me."

"I do?"

"You should."

"Why?"

"Because  _travelling_ , baby, do you really need another reason for doing things?"

"I'm not called Haiti, though, or even  _from_  there."

"But I want you to show it to me."

"I could show you around Stanford."

" _Shut up_."

They laugh.

"I can't believe you went to Stanford."

"Me either." She had followed Paige there on a full swimming scholarship. "I also went to a Katy Perry concert once."

"Gross."

The puffy lips twist in disgust. India is picky when it comes to  _very old_  music. She is picky about a lot of things.

"So where are we going if we're not going to Haiti?", she insists, dreaming of heavy travels. Travelling is life. "Amsterdam? We can go on an European tour, although Europe is boring."

"But you speak French."

"They speak French in Haiti", travelling is life, India believes, culture is life, and if it is primitive and raw India believes it's worthier of being lived, "and in Antilles, and… other places, islands and stuff."

"I'd rather go to India with you."

They kiss.

There's no way she's going to Haiti again. KC was always very tentative about this type of thing. She always took so much care, even mentioning Arcade Fire, for God's sake. Paige was caring too. Even more. But India knows nothing. And it feels like release.

The phone beeps.

" _Turn on the news. Now_. S."

Now.

Emily follows the order – blindly, a soldier – sudden fear cooling the warm limbs.

Professor Hastings is on tv, speaking to the national television about the Miller case. Her appearance is impeccable, the shorter hair slightly longer and clipped, the voice raw, words precise. Professor Hastings with the cutting, primitive eyes. Logic and bone and skin. She is New York. She doesn't need to defrost, she is the grass and the snow. She's going places.

Spencer is conquering the world.

"Wow."

"Wow what?" Auburn spikes up to the tv with sleepiness that resembles boredom. "Oh, your friend."

"Look at her, conquering the world."

"The world doesn't need any more conquerors, baby."

"Right."

The husk fades away as the presenter cuts to another piece and India sits up with a yawn, the sheets lazily left aside. Two worlds collide, but Spencer is gone already.

"Conquerors are murderers."

The voice has left like a dream, so Emily turns to look at India.

"Are you talking about Spencer?"

"Spencer, the conqueror."

So that's a yes. India is dismissive, youthfully mean. She doesn't like Spencer.

"Spencer's not a murderer", Emily counterattacks, thinking Spencer is many things, she is many, many things, but not a murderer. Emily has killed someone, though, in self-defense. But India knows nothing of this. "You're wrong about her."

"Sure", India yawns again, turning the tv off, "she's a unicorn."

Is that ironic? Or poetic? Emily has had too much conceptual density for one day.

"Well, in that case she's a really smart unicorn."

India's melody of unmasked indignation comes from the toilet adjacent to the bedroom.

"The system puts people in jail and leaves them there to die like that's a solution", the list of social and political grievances from which only poetry can save us is recited with diligent ease, "plus everyone knows what happens, the system is rotten to the core if there's no equal opportunity for everyone, it's a legacy and we're all either for it or against it, and the people working for the system are actual…"

Enough.

"India, she puts  _guilty_  people in jail."

She knows she's sounding annoyed, but India doesn't.

"You can't be sure."

"But that's what she tries to do."

Auburn waves reappear in the threshold, then the whole body in the nude. A painting.

"I'm still hungry."

"There's ice cream in the fridge."

She disappears again, and Emily prays it's over.

"It's a sick job, that's what I'm saying", the voice comes from the hallway, so it's not over, "I'm not even saying it's her fault." When she comes back, the ice cream is staining the pink tongue that minutes ago was licking Emily's body. "I'm just saying it's the opposite of what you and I are going to do for the world."

"It's not a sick job, it's a  _necessary_  job."

India stares, unmoved.

"Is it more necessary than what you and I do?"

"We're not really doing anything."

This causes a shock.

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is." Emily stands up, naked too. "She's doing a lot more than we do."

India gapes.

"I didn't know you had such great consideration for the system of social punishment that…"

" _India_."

" _What_?"

"You know nothing about her, or about how she does her job."

India accepts it, biting her pink tongue.

A friend is a friend.

No poetry.

No music, no literature, no nothing.

They fall into a silence that is not as easy as before, and India leaves after a while. Release is release. It ends when it ends. It leaves. It stays. Emily is not going to give more.

The world is not in black and white.

There are more discourses about social punishment willing to find its way out to the world, lectures about the law, psychiatry, psychology, mental hospitals, education, prisons, universities, the police, the supreme court, politics (poetry is politics, dancing is a political act), all institutions that we must fight with our tongues, with our sex. Liberation. Revolution. Dance the night away. Clubs. Jazz clubs. Peace out. Wine. Get drunk. Emily has heard all of it before, especially from India but also from other people, and has heard the opposite too. Success. Do it now before it eats you away. Dance before you go to the grave. Make your money and run. It's a quick race. Only the strong survive. Be smart. Being like Emily Fields means this and that, one and the other, she's done all of it and she's not falling for any of them. She comes from a place where everybody is dead. Not everybody. Maya is dead, Alison is dead, Jason is dead. She comes from a place where normal has been a struggle that she's already quit. She just wants to help kids. She also wants kids of her own someday, once she's put herself back in order, once she can come to terms with who she is, what she wants, what she can get.

But the world is not black and white, Dr. Kerley says, empathy must be tamed.

Empathy must be tamed.

Horse in the porch. Dog in the house.

Because a friend is a friend, she sends a text that only says: " _Impressive_."

Three hours later, when she's already fallen asleep in front of the tv, she wakes up to another text, the old familiar sound that still causes her body to tense: " _Thank you_.  _But seriously?_ " It makes her smile, at least until she glances at the watch. It's late.

" _What are you doing awake?_ "

" _Working_."

" _Go to sleep. Now._ "

" _I should probably listen to you. Or read you._ "

" _But you're not gonna._ "

" _I might._ "

" _It'd be the first time._ "

" _Doubt it._ "

The texting sessions keep occurring every week or so. Emily readjusts her position on the sofa, next to Psy, who sleeps placidly occupying her own place of the spectrum. " _Prove it._ "

" _That time in my living room with coffee._ "

Coffee.

" _That was Aria._ "

Team Sparia was always about coffee.

" _C'mon!_ "

" _It was Aria._ "

The next message takes a whole minute.

" _New York. With the wine._ "

" _We got drunk._ "

" _And we left when you wanted._ "

She gives it some thought too. " _We did?_ " She doesn't exactly remember that. But maybe… well, she did cut Spencer off when KC was mentioned.

" _You're a tough one._ "

" _Your hair's longer._ "

She writes it without knowing the reason.

" _It's been 2 months._ "

" _And you're conquering the world now._ "

" _Spencer Columbus._ "

" _Go to sleep._ "

" _Spencer Vasco de Gama._ "

" _You're suffering from sleep deprivation._ "

" _Spencer Cabeza de Vaca._ "

She calls her – for the first time in two months, in forever.

"Got another one", the voice rasps the night, "Spencer Pisarro." The rasp is different from the one coming out of the tv, though. Emily's not sure why, but it sounds more intimate, less mechanic, even if it's not the real thing yet. She misses the real thing. Electric.

"You should really be sleeping."

"You too."

"Are you in the office?"

"Home."

"That's better, I guess."

"So where's India?"

Professor Hastings goes crudely to the point.

"She left a while ago."

"Fuck-buddy, as I said."

Emily rolls her eyes, doesn't ask where Mark is. He must be sleeping in the bedroom.

"Can you believe I don't really remember any other names?"

"What do you mean?"

"Conquerors."

"Hastings-Melfort is a good one."

"Too young to be true."

Cracks and wrinkles on the other end. Papers? Emily imagines documents piling up.

"So was I good?", Spencer asks after a while. "You know, for real."

"Impressive."

"Thanks."

A longer silence happens – Emily is forming the words.

"You know, I was in class today and I could totally see you teaching, but then I watched you on the news and…"

"You could see me teaching?"

"Yeah, totally." She hears a chuckle, and new words form on her tongue, peacing out, waxing in, growing, blowing in all directions with the wind. "Spencer."

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you come visit?"

There's a moment of surprise – impossible to miss – almost a gasp. "Yeah, sure." The voice pretends confidence but seems absolutely flabbergasted, and an octave has dropped.

"I know you're super busy now, but…"

"I can steal a couple of days."

"I can make room for you and Mark too so…"

They stutter over it.

"Don't worry about it", Spencer insists, "he's probably not gonna be able to come."

"Really?"

"I'll tell him."

"Okay, just let me know the dates."

"I'll text."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Fine.

Okay.

It's consensus, it's agreement – it's liberating them in so many ways. They hung up and Emily finally goes to bed. Spencer doesn't remind her of a unicorn at all. But she dreams of one, quietly trotting in the porch she doesn't really have, hiding between the leaves, playing with the cat, a solitary creature that will offer a paradise that she can't have.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song India mentions is "Haiti" by Arcade Fire. The poem is "The Enemy" by Charles Baudelaire.
> 
> You can check Holcombe Waller's "The Unicorn", which is not exactly a direct inspiration for the title, but in a way it is: it reminds me of Emily.


End file.
